I met you in the rain. Technically it was rain but polite folk would have called it Angel’s Tears. Being an atheist I called it Bee’s Piss. It didn’t smell of honey but nor did it smell of angels. It smelled of parched earth and the tantalising promise of a drink, it smelled of hot hungry animals and the promise of feed, it smelled of dusty creek beds and the promise of a pool.
In the distance lightning flashed and I could tell you were counting too. A breeze asserted itself. The Bees stopped pissing. We went inside to get another beer; it was the only way to get wet that night.
For Sweet Carrina
We met onstairs. I was ascending. We locked gazes and stopped while the other
pedestrians cursed as they surged past. We didn’t utter a word. We parted
We didn’t meet again for three months. This time
the words would not stop and our hands were