"Pang" (adam fieled)

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.