Plausibility of Downpour

Just when we think
we’ve finished with the rain.

Just when we think
the rain has finished with us.

We’ll look outside and the world
will be glistening.

Wet falling on wet
tires plunging
through roads turned to mirror.

Just as we’re about to believe it,
in the plausibility of sudden downpour,
that so much can cascade
unilluminated by our eyes
when we’re looking somewhere else
into the depths of our coffees
(dry becoming wet while we’re shrugging
in our memories),
it is gone.

The storm has rushed off
and we’re still sitting with ourselves.

It is gone, and we’ve been changed without permission.
The feeling of the day altered without consent.

As if some invisible hand had reached
inside of us and fiddled
with our knobs
on the prompting
of some unintelligible whimsy.

We’re suspicious
and it’s raining in our memories.

We carry around showers
even after the skies have cleared.

Birds of Paradise

She wore her hair uptight
when arranging her face
for the day
and all of the lookers.

She could be a sex pistol
if she wanted to
but said she wouldn’t stoop.

Without admitting to how slightly
she opened her blouse
so that her curvatures
led somewhere
in the imagination
like the curvatures of the Earth .

She went to church and crossed her heart
with head bowed
giving something back
that was heavy and unlocatable
to something light and unlocatable.

The days waned and then burst
into showers of petals
all different colors of petals.

The trees lining the avenues in white.
The yellow flowers on the dune banks playing
in the seaside breezes.
The birds of paradise
stiff and pointed in orange flight.
Frozen like her concept of heaven.

She is the bird,
the sermon of the season.

With no need to look
further than herself

or the flower.