The air gets everywhere owing nothing to the dog in our house which
we argued to rehome and which yells against the glass at the hail.
You do love her, you say, on your good days, you love her. You also say,
Someday we’ll be old and rich, having said, These might be the last days
of good living. We don’t feel any one way forever. It is our disorder.
Through the window I chewed through my cheek the hill bares its mud
to the water like a wound or a thigh or a half-divulged nipple of a friend.
Everything is given to us, none of it is ours.
In the dim shower you mistake the water dripping from my lashes
for blood rolling through holes of beard and mouth and sitting
in the empty tub I wonder on which pink atom sighs your border
and can only recall that teacup in that rain in that Tarkovsky film
and that day we gave children apricots which they split against the ground
to watch the pits roll out and I pull you out of you, like definition out of use,
becoming machinery for tracing your every bell like unbuckled fruit.
The jaw loosens. We let the dog whine for rain.