The Deep End 

I can see you standing there 

a planet in the night sky, and me 

a moon trapped in your orbit 

peeking over craters through asteroid belts to see your hair 

dancing in West Texas winds 

and your smile astigmatism 

on late night drives.  I envision your words, soft and silky 

like maple syrup, 

they stick to me.  Something permanent  

that doesn’t wash off in the sink.  I think  

of your eyes rushing like white water rapids 

threatening to throw me from my canoe, so I may succumb 

to their tides.  And I think  

of your touch, how it  

feels like rain 

a hard, pouring rain 

watering this almost corpse, 

 a dying dog sprawled out in a ditch  

with tire tracks on its stomach and flies 

accumulating in its throat.  Some uninspired, rotting thing 

drowning out there  

in the night. And the water pouring 

 onto this whimpering animal causes the prairie grasses in its gut to sprout 

a dandelion born from intestines and decay.  Watered by storm clouds 

and fed by lightning strikes.  Shiver  

and die in the cold, shuddering at the sound of thunder.  Yet 

despite this it can drink its fill, for who  

cannot survive without water?  So as the stench of death 

spreads across highways and cow pastures 

and the roads begin to flood, I can’t help but think of you 

standing out there in the night.  Like a monument 

humming, singing, staring 

as the buzzards pick 

at my bones and swallow  

my eyes, a mess of tissue and torn 

skin, but your presence  

glows like starlight. 

It continues to rain.