The being is closed for repairs
and pigeons are whining on the roof
and the unrelenting rain. But
somehow my veins contain a me and
something beats like wings against
my chest-bone. I’m alive and the world
is complaining. He is gone from it,
my body fights to stay in it. My blood,
like joy, cannot sit in puddles — it
flows some energy stream — complete
dis-enjoinment as mind stagnates, as
noisy body reasons to stay and thrive
through despair and repair.