from inside,    water torrents sound like fire; 
            but a roommate is just home, drenched and gleam-

ing, there's a fresh onslaught of drops when you 
            crank the window to exhale smoke from a 

marble bowl. First-ever flash flood warning 
            in New York. Of course you're here, eyes stretched, laugh 

clipped, bright.    skin like mine. Me on the bed, you 
            on the    floor.    We watch videos to pass the storm.

I remember what your mother said: once, 
            you were a baby, mixing up words, and 

bumping into things. I didn't believe 
            her. I don't believe you when you say slugs 

construct a rope when they fuck. But footage 
            shows mucus bodies intertwine on string, 

suspended from a branch, shivering mid-
            air. Their mutual cord    tunnels like a 

column of twisting wind that in films tastes 
            cars then hurls them back. tornadoes can come 

soft too:    one hungry kiss, your chances stacked.