Water cycle #19: it always rains

I’m spending the day that never ends
with my daughter in snow pants throwing husks
of ice into the river. Accidentally, I have two
dead friends whose Facebook pages remind me
of their birthdays every year.
Some trees were entirely ice by the end
of March & we threw them in the river.
If I thought we could shatter
like crystal pinecones & melt into an ancient life
I would surrender. I have the dream too.
I’d like to make understudies
for us that wouldn’t need to breathe
or be understood or emit carbon.
I don’t believe in hierarchies. In fact, my favorite kind
of inequality is cellular,
like if I turn just so, I’ll become lunar.
Maybe one day control the sea.
I want to be confused
by power. Would you accuse me
of sleeping on your roof while you sleep
under me? I saw a painting of your sleep wearing my sleep
like a gossamer. This is our fast-stitched heaven,
our cloud, the thermodynamic us
in which we become water clinging to dust,
in which we linger over cities like a need
to fall.

Bill Neumire's first book, Estrus, was a semi-finalist for the 42 Miles Press Award, and his recent work appears in the Berkeley Poetry Review, Linebreak, Crab Creek Review, and Laurel Review. In addition, he currently serves as an assistant editor for Verdad.