Rain follows from valueless hands, followed by real
rain. The brightness on your tongue could be anyone's,
even mine--countless plashes as of off-white
taken for light. That color, my pupil, my walls.
For a southpaw righteousness belongs to the book.
Stand still holding hands with white wings opening
to shield your gaze from the affectlessness
of covered cornices, the fluorescent public,
malls standing without an outside letting space
shift for itself. How are you? Your message
would terrify me but your mouth opens and
the paper in it rustles and caws. That should
intimate, close the gap, fail again to coexist
with the moisture of the air we occupy.
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