Matt Morris
Song of My Sylph
how small
you are
to fit
inside
my brain
like a
passing
thought that
flitters
in &
finding
nowhere
to rest
flies out
again
so goes
the day
rain taps
its ten
thousand
thousand
fingers
against
the pane
after
learning
forecasts
point to
more of
the same
it too
sick of
itself
seeks dry
shelter
& as
for the
rhubarb
who gives
a damn
I’ve too
much else
to do
before
I’m out
of luck
work whack
breath bread
& time
to let
myself
be swept
away
thinking
about
the end-
less rain
or you
tiny
& wet
helpless
to stop
the down-
pour though
you are
a god
just not
one with
any
power
Other work by Matt Morris