This night, there are no stars.

watching sky darken,
we contemplate
words like leaden,

sultry, in-
digo. but leaden
is closer to

the slivered prison
of my rib-cage,
bars behind which

this ache pro-
creates. sultry
means barefoot river

afternoons and indigo
has always been
grotesque, except

on peacocks.
so instead i watch
raindrop veins

on plateglass,
think of melting &
the sublimation

of misted breath,
remember sweat
on glasses,

graveled chaos,
rug-burnt morning
sunlight before

the world changed.
but these windows
will not open and we

feel guilty for
our guilt, wonder
why the stars

stay absent. are
river afternoons so
different, now?

we watch and already
rain is slowing; veins
close & strand drops

in streetlit glass,
almost like star-
light. almost.

 

rain story

I.
drops blink past,
iterations
of an early fall; she–
damp smile
waiting
for the sky
to lighten.

II.
puddle-
dipped calves
cross rain-stained
brick bareheaded and
at a run, the road
anything but
yellow.

III.
he
keeps
always
an umbrella
in the glove box,
just in case she (re-)
turns.

saturated

On gray days like this
i feel my words, wasted,
poured out unceremoniously
into monotoned ears.
The hours last for weeks,
ridged skin bridging
space to fill a vacuum
for an instant then
leaving, a hollow on the side of the bed
where your body should be.
Even though it’s December each
second is not quite
frozen, slow pulse ticking
inside my soul as it drips
crying through uncupped hands
onto earth that has already seen too much
rain.