Sous la pluie

Look through the rain-laced window

as the road unfurls over the strange

eastern rivulets of cold terrain, or

wander through the bleak angevine

rain, sempiternal mist within

the odd fragment of western valley

a ghost brushing their lips on your skin.

Remember how the absence of tint

and feathered light used to be

a strike to your quivering, solitary heart

floating among the crows and drifts

of silvered curtain. Lift yourself

a bit higher, and you could be

footsteps from her window,

a waver and pause before you raise

your knuckles to heaven’s weeping door,

you could be an arm’s length from her

matted hair entangled by wind and

laced with smoke, fold yourself into

this hour’s perfect canvas and don’t

look down now, you’re just one

blithe revery from home-



and darling, isn’t this
(my highest sincerity)
everything you’ve ever dreamed,
lift the glass veil (a universe
between your hand and my skin)
between sleeping beloveds,
the space of infinitesimal
décalage, and you
may as well be folded in the same
corner of wild earth (seething
desires of my dismantled heart)
the cool in-between
dispersed by his slow breath
and the brush of callous on your cheek
sing the old litany of words,
those that are yours (is that
me in your poem?) and verses
torn from dogeared leaves of prayer
(not really soothing, but soothing
nonetheless), the fractured
dreamscape of his face obscured
by the blurred reflection of your
slow-moving lips (I died for
Beauty but was scarce-)
side by side along the water,
too weary to reach out an arm
(all my wits to you)
and swim


Poems noted:

a universe between your hand and my skin“- mad/ness by Holden Lyric.
not really soothing, but soothing nonetheless“- The Torn Up Road by Richard Siken.
“I died for Beauty but was scarce-“ by Emily Dickinson.