the rain storms
murders my umbrella,
pries ribs open, disembowels, turns inside-
out, pisses down my pantlegs, bloods
my all-stars in her infernal flood,
will not let up, pound
for pound of flesh she must
have, in stabs and thrusts, what she asks, what
i'm made of, not
bone nor hair or wear, of hide,
nor courage, nor life's fabric but that that time
precipitates, to return,
this body of water.
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