The Eleven of Cups
 
(sometimes it’s just too much         	you set out
every mug   	mason jar    	and wine glass in your cabinet
and nothing will ever catch all of the rainwater
 
a television pours out floods of war
and genocide and so many of the soft people
of this world caught in a
rainwet trauma that swallows a ground up like fire
 
the same day a mailbox is stuffed bent
with bad news
and food left out too long
 
and the whole home is hungry
       the whole home is hungry
where can we turn our broken necks
to find an everlight
looking back at us
sober as a diagnosis
as unkempt as a sugartooth memory
 
if hope were a wild horse
we could never truly catch it
 
        	    the cold om salt-swells
                    	it all salt-swells
        	into the purge of gravity
pooling into rounded vacancies
there is no running there is no walking
there is no amen offered by no congregation
        	there is only the truest thing I can think of here
        	
 
silence