as rain sloshed everything else,
you in my gut, again.
i try to think about outside,
again. buck chopping board smile,
the sag of my knives give
away the other side. spear through to
blot bottle of wine i’ll get,
get not; that beckett play
in coffee pot stop, that pound of
dripping wet, word made flesh
which mark these days. damp most
from the way you edit away
parts of my poems where feeling this
exists. drip dry these days.