mounting her on a wet picnic table
the pure spouts clogged up with leaves
nobody remembers the rain inside the rain
nobody pounds on the door underneath

stripped in a latenight latenight
frogs on a concrete globe
veins in the backs of animal hands, electric white
oil pours down the freeway
oily hands grope oily trunks of trees

outside a lunatic cuddling another
lunatic, the nights tick on simultaneously
never touching the clocks, never touching our backs
with their aching oils