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.