Recounting

i have done it, and it does not do me proud.
what was it that the soupy rain offered the asphalt, the girl on it?
taking a knife, cutting through the haze of our words.

when cars sneak by, i think i hear whispers of consolation,
laying out the parts of you, and lying in the process,
but perhaps i was wrong, perhaps it was stars.
"look, look here at what he did."

you never forget the first time you see the big dipper.
divorced from the canvas, the bed, the picture frame,
you realize suddenly that the sky is everywhere.
you are a tool, to shore up my crumbling levee.