The morning’s atmosphere of showers
Was what you might find on Neptune,
Or possibly more like Venus-- wait, which
Is the one with swirling storms of warm water?
Oh yeah, only our saline earth that flies on water
And should maybe be named as Eos.
Not just a green rain, an early morning deeply blue rain,
Of an air sponged with dark clouds, azure filaments
Draping over with heavy holes in long
Pattern with the soft fray of vitreous drops,
Collapsing a street into clarities and reflections,
Both a cubist dream and the singularity
of unstrained puddles, slightly muddy
And bottomed out with a quarry’s gravel
Beneath the vestments of random asphalt.
The looking glass too anxious for a self.
The world mirrored in those liquid collections
Until the next raindrop falls like a stone
Only they are always falling so there is fraction
With the hypnotic irregularity of paradox in
The tops of trees and buildings, mercurial
As thoughts when not really thinking about them,
Where its possible to float bushes on top
Of the gray stones ret through colanders,
Yielding an overflow through tires of passing cars
That stretch upon explicit rivulets, those hushed
Glissades of gravity across saturated grounds,
As do south-eastern salamanders glisten wet fire
And the feathers of birds are as polished as fish.
An acquiesce grows as the prior succumbs forward
And the transformations carry our momentum
Into a fictive future, all presence in a dank cove
As one stands outside their washed-out parlors
And feels the viewing, the pulling, that is not a sun
But the disjointed that soaks loss into the curative
Ground to shay the curled blossoms atop irises.
Astronomy in whirlpools, without agreed particulars
In the aura of living things ecstatically temporal,
In a full flight across to the untouched horizon.
The man who took his dog for the morning walk
In the local park got caught unexpectedly, inexplicably,
Soaked through in a t-shirt that was the ocean.