It rains and rains and the water creeps into my shoes and socks making my toes go wrinkly like the hands of an old lady. It rains and rains as cats sleep under cars and birds fly above the clouds and the worms in the garden wriggle and wriggle through the dirt and then when they breathe in fresh air and taste release the birds come down and scoop them up in their greedy beaks and the worms become as dead as turds and as useless as those useless poets that speak not from the heart but from the art of imitation. As I close my eyes, I think of flesh and seduction and lips and tongues and eyes and eyes and your eyes and the thought of sniffing you like a mother does to her baby because you’re my baby and you always will be. When outside makes way for inside, the rain comes through the open window and lands in my lap. It splashes against my face like kisses and although I should move, I just sit there not moving a muscle while still wearing my wet clothes that smell like damp leaves and rotting wood. I’m the dweller on the threshold, all barmy and in retrograde. I’m a writer who sings for a bit and then sleeps wishing sleep would never end. The rain comes down hard so hard, and then when you come through the mirror, so gingerly and serene, you put your hands upon me and I tell you to make me your little boy just like you used to. Bite me and nurse me. Give me your breast and let your milk drown me so I may become an angel. Sink your fingers in and pull my hair. Pull it so hard that tears form in the corners of my eyes and then kiss the tears away and spit in my face and carve your love into my chest with a plastic fork. Mock what I’ve got, and then ride me so the walls in my mind continue to fall one by one and I become a free agent belonging neither here nor there. No boundaries. No countries. No form, just energy and flux and the visions you give that spiral out of control like the curls of your hair as they reach inside my mouth, choking me until I gag.