His hands shuffle
next to me. I'm
looking for something
in the lines
that crinkle
from his eyes:
a tributary, a river
basin. It has rained
for nineteen days—
the weatherman
tells us so, smiling.
Channel three
is flickering again.
Maybe love is selfish,
like too much rain.
Fragmented roots slide
from earth, ungrounded
by what nourishes.
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