Weep weep for a week. Or two.
Or a period of certain years
in which time elongates
and disperses into disparate
particle renditions of each abstract
moment. Weep weep as the scar
of sky rises against a setting
sun, all the while illuminating
your day with a forced kind
of transparency, the feeling that
sunset is supposed to be significant,
as if it didn’t happen day after day
after day. Weep weep not for
the weak, whomever they are, not
us for we weep with the temerity
of thousands, with the huddled
collective push of Egyptian slaves
ground into dust with bones under Giza.
Weep weep for the time you’ve spent
wasted on figuring out what it was
you were weeping about in the first
place. Weep for sheep, considering
humans call them even dumber than cows,
although consider that at some point
in history sheep must have been less easily
herded. Weep weep for the fierce sheep
that diminished after the Ice Age, their distant
descendants the bighorn sheep of Montana.
Weep weep for the sheer fact that you can,
although in the range of human
emotions it tends to age and sag women’s
faces and aridify tear ducts to useless bags.
Where do tears go when you weep weep
for the extinct fierce sheep?
—Absorbed, absorbed into your face, they
paint crevices in the nasolabial terrain. Smokey
Robinson “The Tracks of My Tears.” drawn
into your face. So, weep, weep no more, fill an internal
whirpool. Save the weep weep for the future
loss that is sure to happen, don’t waste good tears
on the past, which ostensibly is dead and is only
kept alive by the determination of people to bring it
to reality by marking its life today. Fill your fonts
with the tears of the future, spread isolation
to the fountain of tears, declare a pox on salinity,
fill up your orbs with something else.
