Empirically Nothing

I’ve never wanted water as I’ve wanted rain.
Pigs are slaughtered only once in this city, on Wednesdays,
I’m told. Then sold by the count of chunks? Once,
there was a time when happiness was possible. Like meat.
Defeat. Like rain. What else remains than anticipating our
hunger? How deep to carve its skin before the animal
is butchered, isn’t a question for anything.
             Before falling into ourselves
we eat. Before failing, we touch. The ribs we seared
is the fat I contain. Then water, always getting rid of
water. If observation is pure logic put to test,
what can the body tell us about the dissipation of heat?
How the same water sprinkling from a shower
is colder than the one dribbling from a tap,
                                   how a mouth getting employed
as an ellipse of desire is warmer than it being an orifice:
air on an itch—relief somewhere on that skin.
A vent pointing: like a scissor scaling difficult gills.
Then water, always water. Logic runs fuzzy, and my laundry
funny. I never wanted water. I want rain: I rain.
Sit. Hold. Sharpen. The shape of everything is rain.