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.