The rain never touches us. Light pushed

from stolen sky: a summer too early, we

mar into another war. Whittled into

indigo, the color of small infants, thrashing

under currents. Somewhere, the moon

becomes a muscle memory in ruin. Rain

intensifying like radio. The sky, more than

it can hold. Tomorrow, we will lie on our

backs. With our eyes, unblinking. Our mouths,

open quotation marks. & we will lower

ourselves into surrender. To muffle every cry,

flattened by falling, at once. At night, every

sound from our throats will be too quiet

to be forgiven. & perhaps the gods will

refuse us. For having seen too much. Years

drained into obsession. Red rolling by

our palms. For tonight, we crack the sky

with a torch & fetch holes into wounds.

Moon mimicked toward dust. & we take

turns being illuminated. The rest, kneeling

into epitaphs. No bodies mark our stay.

Only end, among us.