A deposit was made
from the back of the rain.
It was not symbiosis
but a gritty coexistence.
A shard of glass by a rock
lies dulled with corrosion.
Was it a bottle or a jar?
Who knows.
It may have held
a grand liquor once,
fancied in a ballroom,
carrying an ingredient
that tainted the blood
of celebrations long past.
Happiness through inebriation
grants a moment’s lapse of pain.
And if it brought happiness,
who is left to judge?
Time has already passed.
A beetle carries
a small stalk from a plant.
An ecstasy of completion
is born from the might of his work.
In his craw is ambition,
leaving no room for sorrow.
A single flower sways
as the wind pushes it forward
toward a place
where people discarded memories.
A little further along
sits a small cemetery,
bent golden tufts of grass
adorning every crooked board.
The tombstone in the center reads:
I made my bed
now I may have my peace.
I carry the can
and place it over the grave
so both may rust together.