Much

Two hours late and the crying eyes have closed.
The morning is without a memory, it shakes
the leaves in its delivery and new birds are close
but unseen. There’s only a beginning now
and they seem to have never slept. Quicker than
my ear they keep repeating, “let’s hear it.” then
don’t wait for a response. They must know no one
could come out and say anything. I think
they know it all already anyway. Still, maybe the
chaos, the obvious must be stated; maybe it’s just --
the same, old story, inspired again by a new anger.
claimed as creation in some rebirth, selling symbiosis to
the idea of a stranger and wearing a holy hat
on the cover of the auto-biography. But why
is it too much not knowing if the girl's story is
familiar? Why can I still feel her burning beside
me? Identifying the family we have can be hard,
even if you know no one remembers to define it but
you. Why do we still try to forget something
that now has to have made us freer than ever