Too Much Thinking

There are times I wish for a summer storm sheet of tears--a warm torrent stilling
of these chalk calculations' ceaseless reconfiguration across the surface of my mind.

Tears are tiring in a completely different sort of way--empty
as air cleansed of humidity to slowly refill with rhythms:
shoes on gravel,
crickets by bricks,
the humble drumming
of a drip and a can . . .