The rain, being a cosmonaut, comes

packaged in its own imploding.

It's slept for centuries

somewhere, incubating in the nostrils

and chimneys of far reaches.

It falls as a diatribe, crashing ripe

through the shingles like chardonnay.

Rain, you could be a tongue to pick things apart.

When you fall the trees crack into pieces.

I've seen you near the kiosk eating discarded saltines.

You kiss like a magic hobo.

You pinch the light on landing.

Rain, get busy. You need to sort

the stars for Picasso, settle my debt

with the barkeep, break up

the couple quarreling on Caspari St.

Bringer of minerals, swinger

of saloon doors, get down

and dupe the flash cubes

of the paparazzi, duck the corner

and dapple like mad,

splatter my shoes until

they can't be distinguished

from the street.

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