The fountain pours itself all over the post-it note
which floods. I cannot hold it all. It pours past me
and drains away. I meet myself in a dark room
to ask for a bigger bucket. I meet myself on a train
and we agree to kill each other’s enemies. I meet
myself with fistfuls of water, watch myself open
my hands. They say the bicycles on the street—
eco-friendly, easy, cute—are watching us, tracking
our movement, collecting data so car manufacturers
can kill public buses. A bird hunches beside
the corporate surveillance bicycles as I walk
into the flood, tap you on the shoulder, point
at the chasm. They won’t know what
to make of us. I walk until the water swallows
my head, until I become you and you’re the I, until
we blend together like water with water, our
surface tension hugging us close as our particles
braid and shuffle us together, fold us
together like batter and everything I’ve ever done
is your fault. Untraceable as rain, liquid, diffuse.
Same to you. Same to you.