Delta

Sediment days. We are in the great delta plumb lining the sink. You hold my hands. We’re no different. No different. Melancholy is an architect. Clay shapes along the avenue lay prone and amnesia, mute blood pressure of underwater streets. There are whole cities down there. Another where we kiss goodbye on corners. One where my mouth never leaves yours. An avenue shaped like the crook of your neck where trucks lose their way. Instead of clouds, the feet of strangers. Longing doesn't float for long. Women sop wet with time. Me and my hands are busy. Moving the mud. Looking for corners where we meet again. Again, said with hunger. Accumulating.