it is raining in my side of the
   earth
and where light slips away,
ensconcing with its lackadaisical imprint, is the morning: pinnacles and then topples
    into
acontinualeveningwherewordsrunandbreathscometoa      sudden
                  halt:

in the same intimation,
your lip's crepuscule
or your commune's crescent,
  in my side of the earth
    from yours, hurled out
the many sinuous fingers
   of water and the lamp's
  palpebral flutter.