The rain we know comes mustily
it holds the sky.
We’re not children
so stay the night.
We can be the flat plain gloaming
of wine-stained doors.
No air can trick its way in here,
forget the girl who kicks the coloured panel.
Talk is luck and not where love is.
Magic. When I lose that word
to the tone of your attention, it is hard.
Everything we’re doing is below us.
One of the fruits of a collaboration with Ryan Van Winkle. See the rest at his blog here.