Do Something Else

for so long I have 
          felt like one of the dying

leaping shadow to
          shadow so that the sun

which hurts like a caress
           would not tell me: 

so great the variety 
           of flowers on this earth

the living shall never finish 
           counting them. 

it is that which punishes 
           me the rose not 

enough my eyes not wide 
           enough to cup 

all this light that burdens 
           us my hands too 

careless to keep more than
          a simple dipper 

of rain no more 
          than would sustain a 

single miniscule violet
          there are holes 

between my fingers
         the grief that grows 

like moss on this 
         thought deepens the kisses

if you understand
        do not speak

do something else 
         instead.