you run towards the landslide approaching and
I towards you.
water falls on metropolitan buildings and vehicles
with flat tires. if it was a purple dawn or a dimly lit evening
I couldn’t tell, but the city was pleasant in its collapse.

anyway,
you run and I run and it’s pouring.
I run wishing I was back at my apartment;
this is where I shift from mud and all of its possibilities
to a self-contained fire, ethanol within glass;
lay still to escape responsibility.
pedestrians I pass ride bicycles and it’s pouring.

water falls on metropolitan buildings and vehicles
with flat tires. your follicles were red at deliverance and
now they’re blonde. I noticed;
the new look suits you.

anyway,
you run and I run and all of it pours
down.

Xavier Reyna is a poet from the Rio Grande Valley.