The nut on the street
speaks in soft verbs,
tells me, "Every cloud
has a silver lining, laced
with water colors."
He points to the sky
to signal its collapse
on the edge of a promise
that never felt true, a lie
that never felt real.
I've contemplated the art
of painting broken scenery
to build a self-portrait
shaped like self-destruction,
far from the tragedy of skies
and the romance of storms.
When the light reaches us,
we choose to hide our faces,
we play crazy for cameras,
we stand out on the street - screaming,
with verbs as soft as clouds.