catch our breaths at corners and huddle

hand to ceiling
where a small line i never noticed before
weeps rooftop water
onto bedframe and mattress
they are small slow drops
but still enough to elicit panic words 


ricebreadtoast peanut butter and jelly in hand while william and i
detour around puddles
catch our breaths at corners
and huddle under shelter
where others also huddle and wait


you see a three foot wave
and you say ‘naw
i want the 10 foot, the 12 foot
eduardo says
you are a revolutionary


arm in arm
i teach william the monkies walk
towards the #2 line bus stop
what felt like rain to avoid earlier
now feels like rain to offer our hands to
and everything growing around us spiraling out to meet it


we strategize with plantain chips in our palms and light sabers and desert adobe in the background


ben says
and calls it a book
and says something about when it’s published
he talks about the opening poem
as a guide
and the closing poem a bow (as in: what one does at the end of the performance)
and when he suggests a disappearing of the titles
it makes sense
and when i mention shuffling in the unnamed phenomenon
it seems like, if chosen right, this book could pull it off


waiting for the 1
at 30something and el cajon
i entertain urban hitchhiking
minutes before rene and jesse pull up and tell me to get in, fool
this is the kind of chance, this running into people
that makes a city feel like i live in it
rather than just passing through


incomplete, but a detail nonetheless:
the lowering of lake washington
(in currently-named seattle)
by eight feet
to build a ship canal
and the native tribes that died out
as a result

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