The rain pulls down the sky until the sky is
right here, staring me in the head. I accuse
the interloper. I say this is my brain, and the sky
licks its wound like a cancer survivor. What
we have in common, the sky and me, is a habit
of marrying melodrama to indelicacy. They've
cancelled all soccer games, futbal even, until
the cosmos admits to self-creation by hoax.