The dissolving men and women

In the morning rain,
confined to flooding boxes,
men and women wash
resolute yesterdays for
the upheavals of today.
As they scrub off their skins,
their exposed flesh peeters
off, away in clouds of vapor.
Flesh diseased by its inability
to wrap itself around something
other than the hopes and rules
of oblivious, self-deceiving
arbiters of good lives warms
into smooth evaporation.
The vapor of this flesh, these
peoples' only claim to humanity,
dissipates into the corners
of their deluged stalls, stagnant
now with the fragrance of their
revolution. They take their
time hybridizing into pure
infinitesimal sponges of
themselves; a slow, ignorant
process by the conclusion
of which as they step back
into the world, they have
already dissolved invisibly
into the morning mist.