A man hangs his hat in that corner
where once we slept together
an ignorant or discontent foreigner
to our dislocated nether.
No one knows what happened
to the images our jury pardoned.
It was not always rainy when you came.
There were moments, tucked into our night
we found shelter in our tender shame
knowing neither would ever fight
for all the stories Donne read within
that little corner of our skin.
No one forgets—
not even the man, uncapped, in grey
strolling through space time bid offset
frustrated and sweating through the summer decay
praying for the breath that weaves
through the door, but out the window leaves.