Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Rain Poem

Rain comes &
air drops from
my face in cubes
of silver.
The air is thick
with swimming hands.
A dirty spoke,
a loose nut--
all the skin
in the world
is skin to skin
as this poem
is a key that starts a motor
that opens a door
that mops up a mess
in the wet dark.
A flash
of white light:
a piston
through
the frontal lobe
gone, done--
like that.

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