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.