We are two lonely people in a pool of pox, always coming together this way; it took you this long to copy the brown mess I called a face, going through a rough patch, I made the most jokes about how fortunes came together for you, like a heap of loose rocks standing like a mountain, we borrowed birds to stay silly, called a chugging engine a Porsche, drew bulls in gardens with a house smoking chimney on the far side, we hung clouds close to the ground and decided the best way to stick around in each other’s lives would be never to meet, or maybe meet one day when the closets in your home had doors, but meanwhile find a way to relate through the exchange of itches and screams from the call of the pox. First published in itch