Lathrop

The lines that I've drawn

have flooded November away

(no matter how thick

the white

of my lines are

the rain

always washes them away)

and I flutter

like the fountain spray, or

foam on the sea

I cannot beguile my

way

away

from you;

I cannot toil-

twiddle my thumbs

and watch the rain

build up

on the glass.

(All I see is stained glass

like

Da Vinci's

Christ in the arms of Mary)

like sunlight

burning through the black clouds.

I think

when the bombs all go off

marking

my kind

for dead

I would want to spend my last night with you

making love

in the rain

(I can't run away from you)

torn

are

my

l

i

m

b

s

I have no grace;

longer

to breach the bent bandage on my forefinger

withering

from the touch of you

golden

or something so much closer to blue.

All I see when I look at you is the blue

skin

frozen

and

alive

with color

and pigment

that paralyzes me

underneath the neon sign

and the cotton candy that you bought for me.

Patron of the arts

I fund your

doppelganger paintings

of wind

and the

way that rain feels to me

(Like the picture

of me

crinkled

in your dresser drawer)

I like to pretend

that looking into your eyes really isn't that hard.

That rain

does not ruin as much as it does

like fire

you spread me out

across such dry reaches

and corners

of your smile

and let me

burn us both

alive;

your fire warming my rain

and my rain

chilling

the flame.

When I die

would you haunt my patch of earth,

would you come back

and let

me leave

my handprint

on your heart

like a brand

and let my memory cage it there.

I finger paint

my lines

across the curvature

of the guitar

that you strum along with

pitch forward

the pinch of the rain

and ponder

our situation together.

I cannot run

from you;

and the sun

will never break through.