When the sky opens like a grieving eye
I squeeze my hand.
The grip is empty,
the palm not finding wart or line to press;
the fingernails ragged and chopped.
Without an umbrella we get all painted in drops
and you wonder aloud
why all my words are for other people.
You'll never know that I keep them
tied with wire in tight bundles in the hush,
hush of my little heart, the letterbox.
My words are dulled there.
They don't need to speak.
You make enough sense.