Spirit, Breath, Body


When it rains, 
it pours a sickly sweet 

ichor
upon us, our 
chins 

so close to contact but not bothering
to quite connect.  My back 
aches from all this
bending, an attempt to stoop that never works
when we both give up 
& give in. 

Where once 
we coupled, now we shake chastely.  We have come
this far & yet not come at all, & the monk
hangs upside

down to better puke his disapproval.  The beasts
have expired & now hang
like parentheses around our sentence.

The weather is actually a subject
of considerable complexity, but the sun
has plugged his ears
with the upended diadem
of the moon.  Together at last.

The rays of heaven
exfoliate the air, a tiny black frog
administrates our despair.

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