A lit candle doesn’t see its own flame.
Outside, it is raining decidedly. Water slipping, slapping wet leaves, the sidewalk a battlefield streaming with their chrolophyllic blood. Someone’s car tries to color the daylight jelly with an opened tin can of rhumba beats, a distant voice knits overdone love-dove-aboves in between, but this FM watercolor wave is no matter to the gray. It is no matter to the rain, which keeps right on
flowing, frowning down the stucco sides of buildings with windows shuttered like eyelids bolted against the scritch of tree branches, starving skinny and naked in the wind. It is raining outside with momentous surety, it is
an emphatic stream pouring from some celestial showerhead as if to drown the baby imprisoned in the concrete bath below; it is a boiling pot of store-bought
spaghetti slamming against the strainer’s wall, only blank water raining down, freezing through the linty atmosphere, shivering, slithering, simmering certainly down every surface on earth, secure in the one knowable truth
that is gravity
hugging it down.
Shut up behind one of the shuttered eyelids, buried among swinging optic nerves and tetraplegic telephone lines, I am there. Flesh droops over my vision, down my body, swarms my feet; I am a melting candle. The only truth wax knows is down,
and my greasy substance swims through the hours towards the carpet. I might be burning in this rain, if only for some palpitating person to see words on a page: my corpse confected for a single moment eaten away as it began, tucking into rain in the pallid morning.