There’s music hurtful and helpful

pouring into my skin. Sounds like

 

one fine mystery inside another.

Sounds like silence making glass.

 

To the moon I will jump

with a pot of harvest in my hands.

 

To the moon I could cry or scream!

I’d just like to know how wishes

 

are burdensome to each other

and how to catch yard balloons

 

miles from home. I’ve changed

my mind about trying to escape the subject,

 

but I still remain silent when the oil

of human suffering inches closer

 

to my kitchen like the sound

of soaking rains on Tuesday nights.