at nine o’clock
each evening
the sprinklers
turn on and i
always mistake it
for the rain
it sets off an
instant feeling of
sleepiness as the drops
spray against the
slats on the patio

it feels like
it rained all spring
yet that was
a thousand or so
years ago and i
have forgotten
the feel of a
cool breeze as
summer presses on

but at nine o’clock
or there abouts
as the artificial
rains gently patters
i tell her sweet dreams
murmur my love
to the ceiling
and lay awake listening
as the drops fall
and wish for one night
with her held close
as storms rage outside

i like to
fool myself with
sprinkler showers
and surrogate pillows
whispering to the
silence of the universe
with the understanding
poetry is a thin blade
best used between
the second
and third rib

i commit suicide
with every love letter
because forever
rings hollow without
a jagged wound as proof