Forgive me. I have tried
to fix you. To be salve,
or more practically, glue.
As if you were not a man
but a leaky bucket
beneath the rain spout.
Or a cattail with its soft
creamy seeds spewing out.
I’ve abandoned my box
of tools. I no longer believe
in fixing you. My love,
the world is falling.
My love, nothing
is for sure. We
are rain water
in leaky buckets.
We are slowly
spilling seed.
My new practice—
to be here with you
as the field accepts
both rain and sun,
as the tree leaves
meet the wind.