YOUR WATERS

YOUR WATERS


Sounds of rain against the four panes of my room
is bait on a hook that draws me to touch the glass
within the black and white of the storm.

Pressing my cheek to the chill as streams cast
their watery running's through; tattooing my face by
haphazard plasma fingers of incandescent needles.

Small explosions strengthen, weaken, and strengthen
nimbus is seen in thousandths between flashes of dark sky
passing by mostly unobserved between regret, disbelief,
guilt and peace.

Still, I desire to open my window and feel that stinging
of drops - this time perhaps they'll warm to my skin? - No,
this too is an illusion wane as your water slides off
a glass and wood transparency that calls to memories
feeding that insatiable thirst from drains of stone.