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The rain is missing
I stumble under sunny-thunder sky. The weather
simply does as it chooses, and we all might
learn some lesson there. I’ve been drinking.
On the corner the church’s old stone looks thirsty.
Nothing’s coming. There’s a little gauze hanging
in the wind, but the sun is beaming.
Thunder that is harbinger of nothing,
that doesn’t tell fortunes. Thunder
with no rain
and I regret drinking so much so early
because I can’t tell if I heard it at all.
A couple snuggles on the bench, their dog panting,
and I overhear a man describe a horse as “regal.”
There it is again that rumble
like a truckload of apples spilling.
Like a god’s big belly.
A dog in the sky.
Landslide from space.
Ocean of bones.
Lost in Flight
The office tower is glass,
so cars float on its wall as ghosts,
and I’m a phantom too, my shadow split
as three figments onto the marble floor.
I imagine now that each shadow
is of a different mind.
The first stares into the sky
and mistakes it for the sea.
The second stares into the street
and mistakes it for the sky.
The third believes the passing cars
are ships full of the dead.
What do shadows know?
This glass wall is black water,
this street is a valley of lanterns,
this world is the dream of a bird
lost over the sea.
I am that bird’s shadow
being folded by the waves.
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