At the Indianapolis 500, They Spill Milk on Purpose

I am crying without reason,

again. I am teapotting all over the place.

Every breath is a mess. There is no melody,

or rhythm. Just fusses of hair and tufts of rain.

And the birds are howling.

And the dogs are chirping.

I start to write poems backwards,

beginning with the end. Closure comes

and opens the door, carries the eyes

over the threshold like a bride.

And the trees are cracking.

And the sky is rooting.

No one can justify their chaos,

except science. Disorder means things are working.

I suppose that’s a reason for living.

I suppose it’s alright to drop a glass.

Think about it: who would we be

if it weren’t for our weaknesses?

Our bodies would be so dry.