Condensation

Raindrops splatter randomly on downtown towers’ roofs,
forging spider-spoke alliances on top of Miami.
You and I tiptoe the edges, open across Biscayne Bay
clear down to Brickell. We’re stormier than daily rains
bathing summer afternoons, chillier than scowling winds
before high tide. Lie down close to me, love. I’ll shroud you
in a blanket pretending we have different names,
stories separate from the ones we lug like weights
drawn from mirages, answering questions
about where we’ve been, who we’ve seen.
Car horns blow in the street, our words echo under thunder,
windshield-wiper prayers baptizing us clean,
lie down close to me, love, I’ll shroud you, lie.

This is a reprint of work originally published in The Chaffin Journal.

David Colodney is the author of the chapbook, Mimeograph (Finishing Line Press, 2020). A two-time Pushcart nominee, his poems have appeared in The South Carolina Review, Panoply, Eunoia Review, Causeway Lit, and The Chaffin Journal, among others. David holds an MFA from Converse College, and lives in Boynton Beach, Florida, with his wife, three sons, and Golden Retriever.

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