A poem

The pain can be endured until it can’t.
The therapy will work until it won’t.
The light will fill the room until it’s out.
The kisses halt, or should, when one says

And sleep will come as long as you can wait.
The weavers—bird and spider, human being—
are born to knot and net, a kind of fate.
And every seamless garment has a seam.

Where no horizon’s visible, the dawn
breaks out like a flash mob, ready or not.
Better to let it help you put your clothes on
than hide them in a deeper, darker spot.

A clear blue sky can load the atmosphere
and laughter greet the weight of a monsoon.
Childhood can end abruptly or stay here,
looking for those who left to come back soon.