As it falls, the rain is a knife for vision
& it does not exclude us,
stripping the shafts of my hairs,
my fingernails from their beds.
We try to sleep to distract ourselves
but before falling off, I picture
parts inside of me peeling away:
my ribs pulling back from their lungs,
blood from the veins, water from that blood.
He said, look at me & it was impossible,
my eyes seeing the brick & trees in infinite pieces,
the blackness boxing itself up behind him,
taking the roofs and the windows with it,
all of this—how could I look.
The night has become clear,
but still something is falling—
which made me wonder
what he thought of my eyes,
why he needed me to face him,
& if it matters
who does the tearing down.