with you

feels right when my city,

the one I ask if you’ll call your own,

(you know the streets better than I),

is dark, but not dead,

because the sky shoots shiny

tears down at us.

They drip off the snails,

our shoulders,

your eyelashes, 

and onto the wood.

The wood doesn’t decay

and I feel less rotten.

I never understood modern art, 

but you can talk endlessly

about architecture.