Fish Skin in Sun

standing on the corner of Burnside & 23rd,

the tears trapped on my eyelashes

form rainbowed halos

in the presence of unfamiliar sunlight.

riding the bus west

between canyons of trees,

gilded rays filter

through smudged glass.

on a Sharpied picnic table above the clouds

I rest my heavy head,

lifting my neck only

to gaze upon the city below.

desiccated blackberries hang at my sides.

the narrow streets are slick &

weighed down by bitter asphalt,

and the decomposing bodies of leaves

evening wind bites at my ears,

gnaws at knees not accustomed

to the intimacy of prayer.

I speak other names at night.

improperly called gods loom beyond,

bathed in pink light,

cleansed by rains

that once seemed endless.

a patient dog sits on a porch (in silence),

waiting for his turn to cry.

the new moon above

reminds him of his place.

I also look up

& outwards

& inwards

& beyond reality

hoping for an antidote

to the poison seeping into the pale soil of my mind.