Laying here, drowning in us, my legs brush against the cold rustle of sheets you left behind, cutting the airlessness of this room. Rolling over, I close my eyes
A white bolt from above rips through the clouds before our eyes
the lights are on, but no one's home, these glimmered eyes, lamps left on long ago.
I walk these floors, dirt, beneath bare feet, from many roads taken and the soles of passersby.
White bolts from above Rain cuts on kitchen tables, releasing bad blood.
Words collapse on tongues-- wicker baskets of water-- without poetry.