dummy

but how could you love him there
in the plush seats, watching sad
films and thinking about the weather?
The blue stone, Maier & Berkele,
the fine afternoon on the rock. The sun
the way it is now. You told him not to worry…

At least he remembers it that way.
He leaves himself imagining the prospects:
the world swarming with people below,
the mad look on your face that meant dread.
Hand clutching anything–the planet, wet
paint, the dripping brush you held.

He tells you to Shh, don’t speak,
and the clouds go on moving about you,
like it is a normal day. But even you know
the light would not be so upsetting,
so positive and ordinary, without the rain
falling through pinholes in the sky.