Pull a chair over, into
perpetual rain,
and we will talk about selfish desires,
as the cold erodes the warmth of skin
against skin.
Bodies throbbing,
portable stereo imitates rhythmic rain, syncopated
hi-hats and snares
that render others soundless.
Settle in,
wash away the beat-up shins,
and the earsmuffs everyone tries to give–
the world has her own pair.
Away
with the grinding memories, crackling against
black asphalt.
I wonder if it’s gray in England today.
It’s so dark I cannot see my hands.
mini-steamroller 