a slosh of rain stirs the gutters; you’d rather a slosh of gin,
some clear liquor made for searing throat and gutting brain cell
but then you remember that you don’t drink, it doesn’t mix well
with the lithium, and i hear your voice through the phone, a tin-

can voice banged out with a heavy metal rod on which a heart
is skewered. you can bandage the wound but it will still fall
to sepsis, it will turn into a putrid black hole and still
we will drown ourselves with vodka and make this a heavy art

where we have clumsy hands and a crooked needle stolen
from a rusted-out compass that never stops spinning
and i suture you back together while the pain is blinding
only to realize it is myself i have sewn up with love so swollen.


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