Connor McNamara Stratton

Drops

Sleep or rain with us. Wet agonists loosed

from clouds. Window of martyrdom rhythms.

You want to wake with a weeping world. This

whelms me. I need dream tundra. What is lube for,

anyway. We walk to the patter of these

lapsarian songs. I cannot read or feel

you out here, with the sky so prolific.

Let us move in rooms where our words are noosed.

You fall on my body after a dry theorizing

of suicide. We fail

and live. To write is to make ground from cloud,

refuse to hang or drop. Don’t console me.

Don’t resolve my rests. I want the threat

of descent constant—and you, there, ready.

Connor McNamara Stratton has been having trouble reading lately. Office life is a woeful rhizome. Still, perhaps there is hope in the smudges of distant conference calls, or more likely just mute.