Strangers

I don’t know where they
leave before they get here,
but when they do I have to
hear them out regardless.

I can’t get in the way
of the old man mixing
something in the river
with the hatchet that he carried
as a means of erasing
the memory of himself
from the region.

Or the girl who only walks
around on cloudy days
in the hour or so before
it starts to rain and you can feel
the atmosphere shifting
on top of your skin.

I think it’s okay to forget birthdays
since the calendar has always
had a tilt to it that moves the days
around to make us miss them.

I have met face melted people
under lime colored streetlights
in unnamed cities you don’t hear of
in the ice fields of the polar ups and downs,
and I have lied to you just now
straight to your face.

Today there is a vandal painting
parts of girls he’s only heard described to him
on the brick walls of the neighborhood apartments,
and they actually turn out like you’d expect them to.
We don’t always get to choose, but sometimes though
they show up when you need them,
and on those days the whole sun becomes a spotlight.