The problem with storms, they pass
I’ll be mountain, give up my climbers
if you don’t be death
these tears are only now.
You could be resting in that web.
Eyes closed, blinking open, shaking
water from yourself, dog-like.
Droplets fly, in each a map of random god math.
we are rabbits in a cage
never been to China.
furs waking in cold storage
Russian satellite firing up
a slash in the belly of the night.
new girl fresh barely used
two souls hawking an interstellar journey
an out of breath Tuesday evening late September
smell of city pool in your hair.