she keeps a bird
that only sings
when it rains,
to muffle the sound
of the world outside
being systematically drowned -
the ceiling leaks,
regardless,
dripping over the
left side of the bed
where she sleeps.
by 3 AM
we are floating
in our own bedrooms,
laying stiffly
beneath the sheets.
she accuses me through grit teeth
of leaving the window open.
&, i, of course,
deny everything.
when the water reaches
the level of our mouths,
we swallow reflexively
until the room is dry.
the outlets drip
with sparks,
snarling like angry dogs
at our waterlogged silence,
& when we sleep,
we wash up on a monochrome shore,
islands away from each other,
even
in dream -
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