Washing Over

He was in town.  Town’s good. Even though the road between us gurgles like a heavy humidifier.  “He wasn’t in town with you?” Memory, there’s a clue. I loved him then, even though I knew better.  I loved him more, even more than the weather. Gravity fails us all. Our senses are stuck to the wall.  What came first wasn’t even a letter.  

In blue cramped spaces Mother gives birth with no assistance.  The child immediately dreams of a blockchain tomorrow. Serrated rain falls like hurricane pills rejected by heaven.  He said he could’ve washed over and by now I guess he has. If only we all just fell like the rain. Or with it. Or because of it.  

Earliest morning.  A train calls in the distance.  Dim light reflects off water. The sound of geese in the sunrise of our tangled hair.