I have a burning sensation in my palm. A char-edged lily blooms there underneath the flame of an unchecked match. She has her hair pinned up above her neck. The storm begins to leak over her open throat. Then it cracks like an egg and drops on our upturned faces; I cradle my hand to the spindles of my collarbone and squint at the lake of sky above me. The water gathers into rivulets and spills down the groove of her spine, worn there by similar passages. Her breasts and shoulders harden in the chill; I press my cheek to them. My hand aches on her stomach, my hand aches in the rain.