Raining, talking to me, pre-saliva on pavement now worm-washing and frothing. Are they puddles of rain champagne? Are those your eyes or sewer drains? Raining: talk to me, softly, the kinds of things men kill for kindly. Rekindle the kindling, re-speak the speaking until our beaks remember a kind of breathing akin to lovemaking, death-rattling, aching all the way home.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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