Rain Falls on Starved Yard
While I slept, rain. Now a weak sky is soiled sheet
and the strings which are today, this afternoon lie
listless and I imagine myself on a cliff overlooking sea.
Sails perform a jig along asphalt waves, disappear.
Life is a mendicant’s collection of events and our lips,
which mark the hours with description, are a monastery
of igneous words. See landscape rise, assume shape,
flow away, see man cling to his life rafts—see history.
I’m washing dishes, scraping away breakfast, lunch,
returning plates to cupboard, forks and spoons to drawer.
How many times can we sell stale events as virgins
in the marketplace? The water is grey with morning.
The rain returns, falls on back deck. In the flowerbed,
giggling plants are drunk, wind is violin, time impossible.