It begins with the wind
the tickling of chimes
a prelude to the rain
that unwinds
from this fabric of anticipation.
From Kolowalo
the sheets descending
in lost silver sentiments
with no beginning and no ending.
Corresponding thoughts
intervals of rain
a tapa cloth
left out to dry in vain.
Where the smallest drops accumulate
all the things that pass.
Still in your grasp,
yesterday’s papers
soaked through with words
of temporary relief
all the patchwork parched earth
experiences nourishment
though brief and never permanent,
a wet embrace won’t be held for long.
These sentiments,
rivulets of mist
left to describe
what swirls, breaks and disintegrates.
It is worthy to venerate,
in essence
this passage without pursuit,
a luminescence caught in street lamps,
a disappearing moon.
Nothing is fixed in the veritable fog.
When the rain stops
pendulous drops still
cling to wires like
amorphous fingers
plucking stringed instruments,
all the silent notes falling
to the pavement below.
Clouds pass over
the obscured picture.
The memory of an ancestor
drawn out by the scent
of wet bark and ginger,
nameless musk
in the movement of streams
that subterranean rush
of acoustic drains
and neon dusk
dreams stained
wet streets of smeared ink
unintelligible
in windshield silk screens.
The wipers cleared
the glass beads
of surface sweat
and heartbeat
in rhythm with the rain
over and over again.
The sudden deluge,
immersion
and then becoming.
yakskinpocketnotes 