This is the sound
semi-frozen,
                          the sound
of water falling into neon wound,
poppy red almost, electrical almost
hissing                                       cursive

Or, this is
of water falling through
the saying one has never been lonely.

This is the sound
of water’s constriction at twenty-
nine degrees between home
and home away from fog’s constancy,

                                     lockjaw
long enough in the tooth to hear distinctions
like these yet,
water brightening everywhere
brick’s graded and relevant efficiency.

It’s tense, humming under yellow awnings.

The sound of water is finding one
in copper heels along muted
pathways greening soon,

of estranged foot-
falls, missed calls dreaming.