The Water Cycle
These flowers carefully gathered are,
for the moment, my organs.
And I couldn’t tell if I was real
until a butterfly
landed on me.
My body to be carried down to the river
to be dutifully contributed to memory—
yet you didn’t even notice how I was floating,
watching from just above the trees.
Rain is a tension of surfaces,
clinging to windows and wet branches.
Your eyes, full of weather.
Memories rolling in
from great distances
dark clouds over the heavy arms
of a few neurons.
looked up at
in another sky.
Dreams seem to be great instances
seeping through your ceiling.
Your face splashed with handfuls of rainwater.
Do not confuse as I confused
this body with that
which is ceremoniously dumped
in the river.
There is no need to bury water.
Rain is attention
Careful the rocks are slick
About the Poet
Tim Carter is an MFA candidate at Syracuse University. His work can also be found most recently in The Seneca Review, Copper Nickel, This Land Press, and Willard & Maple. He frequently plays straight pool with old army vets and walks around the frozen city.