Reveal

Occasionally, not by direct desire or intent
But by sidelong glance and consequence
She unravels her bun and
The universe comes down
Not all at once,
But slowly
Like the moon, at ten thousand miles per hour
Rising less than a degree per minute
"Your heart isn't in it"
She might remark, in passing
To an acquaintance
And paint whole anatomies of grief
In the movement of a wayward finger
Still rooting for familiar places
But her heart
Isn't in it anymore

Everything is converging now

Pomegranates

There is something to pomegranate seeds
And their curved geometry
They are perfectly smooth until
                                                   Punctured
And then gush, like deflating balloons
In that way, we are balloons too
Always rising
I knew a girl, and her lips were the perfect hue of
Pomegranates
Her name was Samantha
Except for when it wasn't
And most of the time it wasn't
We are all balloons
Held whole by nothing less than tension
Always
            Rising
(Except for when we're not)

Real

In Richard Dawkins's exultation of science
He declares "There is real poetry in the real world,"
And it burns in his eyes
Wildly

There is real poetry in the real world
Moments when we are all revolving
(When we are all revolting, when we are all being overthrown
When we are falling and rising sometimes
at once)
When we find the (the what?) in the everyday
When we find the 
         In the pattern
When we write to one another truly or lie through our teeth
All things are telling
Real poetry
When we break, when we come clean, when we bend to the world
When we show ourselves unaugmented, uncensored, uncultured
All rough edges and mistakes and awkward patches of
Sunlight coming through
Real poetry
All early mornings and late nights and tomorrows and
Somedays and days when we come home to tired to breathe all
Concrete and dawn and freckles and stained glass and stains
And rote habit and routine
All of these human things
All of these humans
Burning
Wildly