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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