There are so many ways 

to be told who one is and

so few ways to be real.

My friend coolly breaks 

the rules of poetry. 

The sky closes. 

I take off my rainy sneakers

so the sun can burn

my back through the window,

so I can lie 

on the brown couch

imagining revenge.

Why bother 

with the letters that birthed

that old foe hope?

Against all word

to the contrary,

we are permanently children.

The sky with its vast clouds 

is more beautiful than

shutting up the glow,

than drawing a thin lattice

about your life.