poem: outside of the internet it is May

rain comes on days when i am in a hurry, but in some other life
i will stop and watch the glass melt. the squat green trees and the pine
bushes, melting into smaller parameters. the rain sound like lo-fi like
a tin roof turned inward, and a thousand nails — clattering clattering
clattering. but it is soft, like your voice on my voicemail saying I will be
home soon but you don’t have to wait up. and if you are asleep
I will crawl in next to you and wait to tell you — all the marvelous things, the
traffic and birds-eggs and sour coffee and hundred-dollar bonuses — until
you are awake and the golden light is hitting us both through
the window, commanding that we run outside at once and perform
the post-rain rites of spring. and we are free to say,
no thank you. and turn back into the sheets as the house moves
over us, shaking the clapboard and gables. shaking to make us
alone and vivid and eternal — the image, the lovers
asleep in May.

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