I'll be with the pill bottles, the scalpels, the nooses 

if you ever want to find me; I'll be looking at my 

rain-rippled reflection in the glass, a ghost of me.

It's raining outside. 

There's something about it, 

like a dead man's bony fingers 

on his coffin lid, that slips through me, 

like a knife through butter 



For a heartbeat- one that stays trapped in 

my atoms, wiggling like an electric eel- I am young with 

copperburst eyes and strawberry lips- then it fades fast.



We all fall down- like the rain on the 

other side of the glass, like the shovel of a 

man digging his grave. I would lie in it, but 

the trees outside would shake their heads in pity, 

their beards sodden with tears, as though  

they know how this will end. 



(I'll be with the pill bottles, the scalpels, the nooses, 

I'll be there, a rain-rippled reflection

just beyond my reach)