RAIN FOR NINETEEN HOURS
Delicious day of tent and rain, the wind
cold but not unloving, like mothers before
Spock. The silent torque of glacier, gentle
in its stones, goes at once both ways and stubs
its toe on bay. And when the sonic boom
of calving comes, dainty shavings of blue
bob and gurgle like synchronized swimmers.
Swimsuit models would not tolerate this
random havoc and scratch of snow. Sweater
supplies would stretch beyond redemption.
Rain in wild sheets like Klansmen riding swamps
knocks on my door in dream. Any salmon
in our net must be called a suicide.
Tonight, dinner will have the soggy warmth
of long goodbyes at airports. Goodbye. Bye!
I hear the faint whine of a distant plane
and with it goes the wilderness. Kiss. Kiss.
The sound of rain, like kitchen knives against
collarbones, makes danger out of dullness:
Fred Astaire tapping with an Uzi down
Main Street, or Sandman Sims, or Bojangles
on a steed. Nerves of men at altitude,
women in depression, lonely for themselves
but trapped with someone else, can’t clear the sky
of tears or satellites blinking with regret.
This day is the day of distant mailmen,
cold, carrying on, asking themselves why,
while fat dogs lay low, growling dreams of meat.