you want a divorce. I want a twenty-story building with hurricane-proof glass
made of all the words you’ve ever said to me. on the first story: you have eyes like
lanterns. care
to light my way home? on the 12th: take my life jacket; the water’s rising too fast.
the 20th: put the gun down.
the phone line is broken. the power lines have fallen. the glow has been extinguished
from our bodies.
eventually the flood taught us how to take a break from one another, and so,
like nooses,
we hung our skins out to dry
on what remained of the fenceposts.