The Dry Season

The high impelling whine
of your dog eared
slap me around a little more
this time,
and the wine pours so sweetly
in the broken glass
and you hold me so nearly
but there’s nothing more of mention
between the two of us.

My head’s banging rosaries
over the coffee and the empty
eggshells scatterd
by a thousand years
of crawling from my knees
to stand erect;
with my bronze helmet
closely packed
and my shattered mind
singing in the empty breeze.

For the rain is never coming,
and this drought that holds us
in its brittle grip
is snapping at my fingers
with the dry litany of the empty ark
where Noah sleeps.

We are never coming
two by two,
this split is irreversible
and I notice the way
I felt for you
has scattered the dust
across the fallow ground
where only irritation is
holding us together
until the promised deluge.

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