this is a town of rain,
not infrequent. i want
to make mention of being
vague, not in intention but
in construct. i am unfit
for this desire, so instead
oval back to hoods.
as this is, a town of rain.
a hood turned up to keep
rain from tenderness,
that is my body. this is a town,
infrequent and of rain.
with a hood up to keep
panic from staining me, i walk
to a post office. perhaps
i have something to send, or
maybe it is that i am hopeful
to receive. a man
passes me; we are both
on foot, feet even, both
wearing the blurred cloak of beard.
his leashed dog strains,
my starched face hides. muttering
commotion of rain.
man and myself, both
strange, nod a faded greeting
as we pass. strained
dog nips at me, my shuddering
thigh. to be bitten is a shame
that i cannot bear.
this town is one of rain
and rain is a form
of allowance; put up
your hood, friend, try
to shield that of yours which is
tender.
after the nip i feel
a flood; rage. this
can perhaps be better
expressed as such: i sit
in meditation, sometimes
attempting to empty, other
times trying to quiet. still
other attempts are a focus
on loving kindness.
though of course all of this is
a ripening of blood,
an aggressive blooming
of violence. you see?
or to say it another way, “should i live
in reality, or live in the television?”
some of us, perhaps, are meant to
ring with grief.
some of us, maybe, are meant
to drop, rain. a hood
pulled up and rage floods
in and silently seeps away.
on the walked return
from post office,
i pass large garbage cans
out front of apartment buildings.
they are coated in ravens.
over a few streets and down
a hill towards the water,
i see the tops of buildings. eagles
sit up there, drying themselves
in the rain.
