Rain On My Glasses

coffee stains

on teeth


he stands in storm clouds

in thrall of breath


‘it hurts sometimes’

throat raw from singing


standing in the rain, full uniform

‘no reason at all,’ he says, knowingly


‘can’t see a thing past the little planets

of water in front of my eyes’


who cares for

the church of a soaked heart?


spilled, dried, cured concrete-hurt

like dead forearms in a pile, in a parking space



and little else matters,’


he says, with cryptic, dark satisfaction.



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