The Wettest Yet

It's raining but the dog won't come in.

All morning a sobbing sky

leaving no room for imagination.

His naked hands in November, like that, but colder

just before the heat.

That's how it is losing a heart

to the highway – like the sun sinking in half

degrees or like eating the moon

down to the rind. East is the story I make believe

in the middle of a Michigan night

with broken blinds, either always drawn or always exposed.

Oh my northern lights!

My bleeding sand dune screams and whispery pine songs!

The boats are empty now

the shores without moors.

Seiche rising.

I remember when the sun warmed my clothes

hot shirt against sweating skin

Will it rain for 40 days? The wettest yet; the impossible get.

Is it not you

looking for something to burn?

A jonquil sunrise

and ghosts of quatrain lines

pouring whiskey into the wishing well.

Is this a tango or a waltz?

Wallflowers the size of broken hearts. I saw

fingerprints on her guitar in the 23rd Psalm bar light.

Lay me down, good shepherd. Wrap me

in the lashes of a willow. Build the ark.

Sail to Nineveh.

Just do something before we drown.