They say the rain
may be hands of steel
trapping us behind blinds
where we crouch naked
counting each pang that
rivets us to each other's
pores. Or, something,
we don't know what,
dropped out of the sky
like a sodden death-wish.
Either way, "they" drops
dead the minute drop
one transfixes us to
somebody's innocent
lock of hair, curve of
thigh, hip-spread, tongue
pinkness; we have only
ever been one, "I," that
now must sacrifice every-
thing to lose the only
thing it knows, that
parched, livid center.
Post a Comment