last i saw Trevor he was walking in the rain without a raincoat, now i see him on the back deck of Mike’s old wooden troller and it is still raining but he is dry

it rains.

thick clear vinyl
and fiberglass
and blue canvas
keep me covered
from this wetting,
though i am open
to it. or
rather, i am
on a vessel with
an opening
to all this rain.

a windswept drop
or two, exclaim
upon my leg,
naked, from
the knee down.

earlier, when i was
walking and
it was only
misting, i
walked by a
flowering bush,
its smell,
startlingly sweet.
it shares its
little patch of land
with a tall, thin,
meant for
exhausted cigarettes,
and a stout, wide
meant for that which
we no longer care
to keep.

it’s a study
of discretion and
to walk by this
scented and
bloomed bush,
this garbage can, this
glorified ash tray,
to breathe in deep.
hoping for
the flowers to enter
and the ash
to stay
away and
the abandoned
and used
up to keep itself

i am not hidden
here beneath this
thick clear vinyl, this
fiberglass, this blue
canvas, no.
i am not
hidden but i am
afforded the protection
of choice; do i
want a wetting or
do i desire dry?
and; am i
willing to risk
bringing into me that
which i prefer
to avoid,
in attempts
to absorb
that which is

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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