Teenagers across the street are dissecting

the rain-sodden piano. The rain comes down

hard, here, harder than anything you’ve seen,

any judgement or judgement day or gavel.

I’m sure someone in the world is playing the flute.

Your eyes in the vanity mirror; like the cheap

tiger-eye bracelets I sell at the gift shop

I work at all summer, putting small things

into small paper bags, watching for people

who pocket the rings. I’m sure someone

is pulling a huge gemstone out of the world.

Your eye with a freckle in it. Come to me

now, as your back turns to the cold concave

of the vanity. Come to me with only skin.