The Blurring

by Abner Dormiendo

I woke up this morning
with a knife on the underside of my body,
felt the hurting below that part people call the ribcage
but I insisted on calling a disaster
waiting to happen, and this morning, it did
just when I rolled on my side
and faced the sky facing me
all this time with its furrowed brows
and the cruel blue eyes of his
glaring down on my suffering as if to say
I told you so. I wanted to send a complaint letter
saying Dear Mister Sky,
just because ‘rain’ rhymes with ‘pain’
doesn’t mean I got what you’re saying,
you have to be clearer than that—
but since I had no pens and I was running out of words,
I went to the window and made a medicine cabinet
out of my apartment front, plucked a leaf and called it a gauze,
swabbed the flammable rainbow like an antiseptic,
downed a birdsong like a painkiller, picked a slab of concrete,
led it to my room and called it a friend, gave it a name,
told him, Andy, I was hurting, and he told me
he was hurting too, and the next thing I know,
every crack in the entire expanse of my street
is at my doorstep asking to become my friend,
told me stories I do not want to hear,
stories about how they became
the way they are: a week’s worth of rain,
an aftershock of a jackhammer, a history of feet,
and erosion, erosion, it’s always erosion. Erosion
and rain. Erosion and gravity and rain.
One of them told me he fell in love
with a fallen dead weight, and I told him
“Everyone on this goddamned street fell in love
with a dead weight.” And a voice was calling
from the outside but it was only the rain.
I saw the blurring of the asphalt with the shadow
of the rain, and the blurring of the rain
with the whitewashed sky, and in between these
the blurring of the shadows, and in between
the in between, the wound flourishing, and me,
in the middle of everything, watching myself
and the street and the rain and myself
and the wound becoming one

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