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imago
those whispers,
the chants the clouds make.
the zen friars in white
are made less than you.
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you are better than them,
better than the blue forests
of the night sky
you are better than them all.
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because I know what makes you.
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dragging out days
mason jars and broken barstools
they are not what
you consist of
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you are not car parts
in a heap of acid heat
you are not surplus
because I know what makes you.
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you are made like
cherry blossoms.
not an afterthought,
a finish.
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you were made
with hands like thunder
spoken from a mouth.
Made better than all.
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i can tell
you.
because i know
who made you.
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