The Little Kid Was Playing Bottomless

fino, filoso.

rain on asphalt,
thin, sharp.
shade makes my house a while ago

no matter what day of the week.
City
bleeds under the handset and I still hold hope that

back your hand around my waist,
my kiss to your tongue.
limps my heart your name,
increasingly wet, aching
on the asphalt,
thin, sharp.