Today, for pre-planned, futures-not-lining-up reasons, my lovely boyfriend and I broke up. It was raining while I drove back to Phoenix.
“Controlled burn: do not report” glows in safety orange
emblazoned among a sopping sky’s fall to earth
(the asphalt is soaked in the smell you call “wet” instead of “rain”)
as I tumble downhill into desert sand,
where I might hang these feelings to dry on clotheslines
strewn above the oneness of suburban riviera
along the disconnect of an empty swimming pool.
“Break up” carries the violence of ripping apart
these parts of a whole, my dear, or smashing to pieces
collections of the familiar,
a child new to limbs lost in the space of things:
what sort of holes do spaces within the atom
leave wounded in this universe?
How does the heart of the atom yearn for the distant linger of the electron?
And what power high does that electron get from pulling light
into the gray scheme of cloud’s fall from heaven,
bucking up the sadness of scene with the violence of
(parting lips was an exercise of muscle and magnetism, love.
I don’t know how I let go of your hand at all.)
This sign, blinking in its orange bulbs, though, tells the story
of a controlled burn;
the accident of lightning does not always beg for
I cannot help but notice
how the gray smoke rises halfway up
to the falling sky
in order to kiss in the middle.