shake

in my crevice
i gaze wide-eyed
up at the giants screaming
with teardrops in their hands.
my sight has never made
any sense before, these empty eyes
drowned by the drops falling
through their clenched fists.

somewhere out of my hole,
i feel the earth shaking.
rubbing my blanched fingers against
the walls of dark stone, forever-wet.
my white fingernails, shortly-trimmed,
shine in the
pale light.
and i feel that mover,
i feel that shaker.
i will never know his name,
and the men in the clouds and the
men on the ground – too busy
rubbing grease on their bodies
to weather the rain they rattle
from the clouds with their
incessant screams – shall never know either.

still,
he keeps on thundering,
keeps on rumbling.