The graveyards of climate:
Like fishing,
where a scant few days are easy.
.
But mostly,
August’s forced languor
to some other eden,
Far from this nihlitude of sapped topographies,
Calls us down.
Now: the dusty dry interludes of impossible
Hell hole hermitages of heat.
Oh, Hell yeah!
.
And those cruel, cheating soft years.
.
Neah, the feint tries of Autumn:
Failed shadows of yesterday’s
Arguments over long drives
Through once watery green valleys
Where tiny creeks had life:
In those old memories we write about now,
And dream of,
Before the tiny earthquakes stir us,
From the empty, dark hour before dawn.
.
All this:
Left behind now.
.
If I could wish on a genie,
Just for this time:
Give me the geologies of water,
Grandma’s fountain,
once again.
Shaken Rain 