The priest
chants vespers in Polish, doors thrown
wide and oozing godlight into the street.

Startling at each other’s touch.
Such pent-up electric joy
of my younger self.

Rain.
Flight from rain.
Rain on the head.
On the hands touching other hands.

How near
is the suspicion of drowning.
Inviting, fragile sea.
Dark covering over half my face.