The bodies are fools for loving each other's
empty cavities. A hollow stick leans against
the wall in the dark. You love her foolishly
despite your will. Because things will ruin and ruin.
When the silence is something larger and louder
than the thunder tearing over the house, when
the field seems emptier because she stands
at its center. When the body doesn't feel
like it's yours, you offer it. Then
everything stops like the end of a story,
a film on the edge of breaking. House of spun sugar
threatens to burst at its hinges, snow falls
in music sheets, table letters remain half written,
coins scattered across the room. Outside,
crows take off shattering the thick of rain.
And the work of rain becomes harder.
