Winter Rain

Cackling, rasin windowpane,
wash the long hours I spent aching
drooping over in showers, on tables,
across countertops, in chairs
with the wild gelid wind
rushing round my chest,
the berry sticky darkness
a melting flame on my neck.
Small matters, susurrous
halls, lit white with a wet,
tumble the bodies in the brass
ping-pong drum, my mother’s eyes
bouncing in her head, my father’s smile
a flipping pancake, seize
each battered number with grin
and toss them out to the people
in surgical gloves, in secret rooms.
So, winter rain, you come here often?
Make something grand
with my disheveled hair; stack it
with care and cut out shapes
that the chatoyant lookers might use
to sail their lakes, fish their rivers,
weigh themselves down into oceans
to sleep on those pastiche floors.
Chatters on rumbling,
the nimbus market in roar,
welkin gallbladders bursting
searing streets and the hissing wail
curls my toes in pleasure,
like a breath of heat, a sudden screed
of thought penned out effortlessly.
Sisters reel in black pinwheels,
lovers bank, sprint from sight;
inside the clambering gambol uptop
pieces of me atomize,
shake so hard they fling
all their bits off, and I sting
from the air biting, scintilla springs
and I jump the moon wearing my very
ugly hat. Tonight, storms don’t
divide me, merely ravel, ravel, ravel
with all the stars, all with wire,
electric current, grassblades,
bubblegum, and I sing the songs,
gales licking glass, and my own tongue
whipping in coffee beans
and raspberry leaves, and anise.

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