Wednesday, Gloom of Fridays

The rain was glass
broken so that the air still warmed me
when I stepped into it.

I wondered; knew
you would get wet
even with an umbrella

and that finally,
no distance could keep
my stoned advances from your window.

I knew things but wonder
always on the meaning.
Distracted from the path

and without a proper sunset anywhere—
my guts hung, dripped
and washed into Back Bay.

Soaked but not cold
unless I thought of how
you were kept dry.

And by my twists of fantasy
and no tools to castrate with
I would have unraveled

that I opened the floodgates
but I’d never apologize
my knife, you are too high,

like bone neck lace
your affects hang
to hide his blue and black marks.