Being it's the month of 45 and rainy
one gazes at the deck and wonders
if I saw a god's face, I might turn it to stone,
or draw mustache or scribble some jokes
or become like rain myself or forget my name
Being it's a week of the 45, rainy,
too cool for the deck, one stalls in the thought
about just what makes things a god and
whether I could make one an ornament from stone
or paste it to pictures of cities far off as a cute joke.
Being the remainder is 45, rainy,
such final days are to brood
over whether to bury or burn, dig down a god
alongside me -- or mount us both on the mantle,
twin boys, and obsessed for fame, for esteem, to be loved.