Book of Rain

Humidity palpates the heedless air
then, blue nits pound the city dust
and china cabinets rattle in its thrall
a piano falls out of it, a pulled
muscle, a gash in silence, the ivories are
fisted in pedal depressed clusters
divided by earth into sky
upturned at the brim of its bay
buckles the paper, warps its print

We scatter seeking cover, but
the sky is our cover, the rain covers
and rends the book of sights
now the thrill of lost footings
leaping curbside puddles
I feel suddenly late for something
and after, I cannot begin
to catalog all the sounds
now that it is quiet

_

This bit was started shortly after TS Imelda inundated the Upper Texas Coast with absurd amounts of rainfall, and has since been revised and rewritten, modified and culled dozens of times. Raining, as it is this morning, I had better go ahead and send it on its way. “A piano falls out of it,” was the seed that germinated.