Erasure

The rain didn't ask for permission

to turn the foul line into a milky stream.

It’s all going down the sewer grate now,

the "in" and the "out" mixing with the oil.

A kid ran through the mud earlier

and carried the boundary away on his legs,

smearing the white dust over his shins

like he was trying to camouflage the bone.

Now there’s just the gray dirt

and the smell of wet limestone

waiting for someone to tell us where to stand.