Dew by Jake Lane
Foggy fish breath and broken canals can’t underestimate the soul any more than a humid hawk can
understand the vastness of lament. We’re born, terms and conditions applicable, subject to change,
slogging our way through muddied canyons and hose water.
Sprinkler systems douse lush fires that surround a bruised heart, an aching intellect. We drown
ourselves in the inevitability of being branded normal. Cardboard signs decay at the edges where the
embodiment of us once grasped them, having never known pleasure.
What good is pleasure? Without dew, is a morning ever truly good? We take more sips from the
spigot at the side of the house, our entire lives summed up. The brightness of the sun still mourns
what yesterday held too tightly.