I resort to artificial tears
when unexpected
wind dries up my view.
When I reach that confluence
where I must drop 

it, so I can heal, I’ll be ready
to swallow easy. My eyes
will no longer resemble
the backside of my tongue.
The weeping didn’t 

last.  Even briefer
than the heart on heightened
alert. Even briefer than a moon
to moon gap. Should I become
a faucet, I hope to filter out 

all of that gritty pride.