Shirts are hanging on the dryer rack
facing this way, that way, all askew.
Pressed ones- never worn -pushed to the back,
thread-worn fabric-favorites- still in view.
All the trousers worn throughout the week,
a time when all the clothing is reborn,
cycled through the wash and wear to seek,
yet, when the day is come, some never worn.
Moved from wash and rinse to spin and dry,
the change in quarter marks an upward trend
past the crush of linen’s static cry,
to push the laundered load towards its end.
Then what remains, the slight adorning change
of coins and such, and shirts to rearrange.
jagged and obtuse,
or egg-shaped and small?
many thousands will think
and ask together.
we have a frantic need to know this.
while existing in burning air and suffocating space
spalling red blood tears
between each moment of sweetness
bits and pieces starting as wax, not honey.
it does not pour or flow,
rather builds and solidifies as stone
clashing with the surrounding sediment
to sharpened edges:
a gem that scars and heals.
that’s what love never tells you.
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
I went for a walk in the rain
because I wanted to soak.
I had an umbrella, but didn’t bring it with me,
keeping instead to the tree-covered lane
in the center of the boulevard.
Large drops penetrated the canopy
to drench me, but yet still
was coddling and consoling.
Passing people with ponchos
who smiled at my foolishness.
Street vendors stared and then
covered their wares with tarps and old towels.
There was the splash as I shuffled my feet.
The penetrating damp crept through my sleeves
Far from idyllic,
just a steady rhythm
of cascading drips through rattling leaves.
The trickle of rainwater down my cheek
as I awoke at the end of the street,
gave the vague clarity
of having just been kissed.