Perfect Kind

A perfect kind of desperation.
Any drop of water knows it.
Falling, in flight, thrown by circumstance.
Or accident. Nothing duplicitous.
This isn’t theater.

Thrown into and through the interval.

A thread of moments traversing an abyss.
Will I manage to become a bird?
Whose eye shall I moisten?
Whose mouth?
Such intimacies as every droplet knows.

By heart.