Fare, Less, Well

Disappointment rains a few miles off
and I am a dry plant watching 
wishing those clouds over there
would keep their tears to themselves
or come cry on me. 

Desire climbs my back from my hips
and finds itself too high, too far
from its puddles of murk.

More darkness, then. The light cracks
the side of an egg and refuses to admit
whether something will be born. 

I'm working up a fertile hope and it's got 
things to say about the future.

Good bye, difficult hello.