Phone Call, 3 a.m. • Amanda Auchter

He tells me that the rain
is lazy there, uneasy, unable

to make up its mind between
drizzle and downpour.

The ceiling fan stirs the humidity,
breaks the moonlight

on his walls. The shadows
are flat, enormous—

flutter of tissue, outline
of lampshade, black streak

of bedposts. He spreads
out his fingers, says that

if love was a reservoir,
we would collect nothing.

I hear the thunder and car alarms,
the quick burst

of static on the line, then silence.
Tonight, I sleep with the window open,

let the darkness fall into the gaps.