Can I cry if I want to?
Here within the confines
of nowhere, crepe covered
mirror a shrine to coveted strength,
I am party to appearance, look
to not a semblance of a tear.

Red eye flying through the night,
in dreams I fashion reasons, postulates
of failure, standing in the rain’s emotions
waking to primeval glisten into ducts.

These ducts line up in rows, feathers
act as substitutes, the downy softness
of a face in dark repose, absorbing blow
to blow redundant, dry the by and by.

I sit and watch as others slough the moisture
from the air, my air, dead air lost without
a sound, I will not wail, I will not weep,
only sweat of brow, a reference to the weather.