Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Rain

Out here is no shelter:
cold stones only, gray and wet,
and an atmosphere of filmy liquid.

The clouds churn
odd figments, a slow procession
of ghosts on the blurred streets

finding their snaky paths
under black bats harassed by a wind
that respects no human, no tree.

Dripping branches deliver slow torture
even in a dry respite,
dropping tiny shocks on the scalp

or inside the collar, running
chilled fingers along the spine,
pulling the mind back

to the serrated moment
and those humid tales
of drowning waters

that fill damp newspapers.

(Inspired by ten days of nonstop rain earlier this month)