RAIN

We are together in rain.
I hold you closer than usual,
flesh soaking together.
You decide I am your umbrella,
at least for a day.
I don't mind.
Your eyes turn green.
We laugh, breath warm as steak,
hands under each other's raincoat,
warmed by the fire we expect is there.
It isn't,
forgetting how to heat each other,
without opiates of disorder.
I am your Shelly.
You spell this Shirley.
I go rowing out on a lake,
heavy thoughts from the clouds
that become us.
Lightning cracks chords.
I try to make out your cheeks.
I still try to smile but cannot.
All I see is teeth.
Each one gets closer and lunges,
forceps to the full,
in bare stony rain.

BONED AND TONGUED

He never used the largest bone much,
as if observing life from a distance,
bricked and high windowed within.

The bruises of childhood became breaks,
even when he tried to accept all,
as if this, too, was a call.

Each year grew gnarled,
lieing low in celebrations,
shrugging off public ceremonies.

This is the way, he said,
startled at the mirror's indifference.
One day he broke the glass, sighing.

He joined groups, resurrecting the tongue,
poking it out as he once had with ease,
discovering fitness had flown, like time.

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