FACING THE FACTS

that a cloud is a tongue in the mouth of sky
that the wind blows into a curvaceous shape
that the sun touches every day, testing for warmth
that the moon twists around its afttening body
afraid to hear what it has to say.

For it is the hot, the sour, sweet, bitter, and salty
that make up the earth. Some days
you want nothing more than tasting the raw
afternoon, the unwilling words, the tongue wrapped

in syllables. Swallow the effigy of facts
and you are fire climbing each ribcage, searching
every dream, using everything up, leaving nothing behind.

Say hello to the sky
and a little piece of heaven remains between your teeth.

Take what you can. Hold it. Roll a cloud
around in your mouth until you forget
about the moon expecting you all night long
at the dark window. The evening tosses
in your empty bed watching you become invisible.
Then you taste everything.