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...and when a man cries  
  
in the corner of his  
highs    
   
no one could see    
no one would see    
no one should see    
   
and when a man cries    
behind the veil    
of his highs    
   
he has done all    
he could've done    
he would've done    
he should've done    
   
to avoid    
the void    
   
and    
when a man cries    
under clear blue skies    
it rains    
no    
not a flood    
just a pair of droplets    
on a couple of specks of dirt    
leaving them moist  
yet as barren    
as before    
   
and when a man cries    
with open dry eyes    
his widest of grins    
are his    
whitest of lies    
   
do not ask what happens    
when?    
a man cries    
   
it is only after    
"the man"    
in him    
dies    
.    
   
   
it happens    
without a sigh    
because    
when a man cries    
he does so    
behind the visible highs    
   
   
and when a man cries....

His head was bathed in white,
tied tenderly to the side of the boat,
afloat
but barely, and nought but water filled  
the lung
salt water still stung tired eyes
wide as his as wide as mine as wide as the endless expanse around us,
wounds to his head, to his cheeks, to his lips
from which he'd no longer speak
and my body lurched, over the water
too late to stop slaughter and yet
desperate to save his flesh from the ripping tide
and I couldn't manage to raise his from the slop alone,
without a rope,  
it was too much even when using the sloped edge of this sailing home.
I wanted,
needed to take him back to a shore
where someone could do more, where someone could softly clean him up -
give him a send-off
that I couldn't offer.
Unfortunately, that was fantasy
reality defined he'd be left with me only
and the duality of rushing and stagnancy.
I slept on his shoulder
where he wouldn't feel it
and dreamt he'd grow older and make me dinner
and I'd get thinner
and we'd let kids play in the garden
kids both goat and human form
and he'd mow the lawn
and I'd cut him flowers fresh from the borders
and he'd give me orders about how to wash his shirts
and it hurt as I slept  
and the water leapt across my face
but not enough to drown beneath.  
I cut his binds,
without hatred for who had bound him there,
I didn't care and it didn't matter
as the water became flatter
we both floated, astray.

His head was bathed in white,
tied tenderly to the side of the boat,
afloat
but barely, and nought but water filled  
the lung
salt water still stung tired eyes
wide as his as wide as mine as wide as the endless expanse around us,
wounds to his head, to his cheeks, to his lips
from which he'd no longer speak
and my body lurched, over the water
too late to stop slaughter and yet
desperate to save his flesh from the ripping tide
and I couldn't manage to raise his from the slop alone,
without a rope,  
it was too much even when using the sloped edge of this sailing home.
I wanted,
needed to take him back to a shore
where someone could do more, where someone could softly clean him up -
give him a send-off
that I couldn't offer.
Unfortunately, that was fantasy
reality defined he'd be left with me only
and the duality of rushing and stagnancy.
I slept on his shoulder
where he wouldn't feel it
and dreamt he'd grow older and make me dinner
and I'd get thinner
and we'd let kids play in the garden
kids both goat and human form
and he'd mow the lawn
and I'd cut him flowers fresh from the borders
and he'd give me orders about how to wash his shirts
and it hurt as I slept  
and the water leapt across my face
but not enough to drown beneath.  
I cut his binds,
without hatred for who had bound him there,
I didn't care and it didn't matter
as the water became flatter
we both floated, astray.