Cleave to the eaves in spring 
rain, our t-shirts stick to 
our bodies. Birdsong raucous
before dawn unchains me. 
There is no reason to go on 
adulting is make-believe 
in this economy of wild straw-
berries and green onion. If only
you would message me direct,
forgotten father of much un-
needed discipline. Your prayers 
prey upon the shifty rabbit of 
my mind. Mine, the abandoned shaft.