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.