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It’s a reef of rain and thunder
that opens the briefcase heart, that opens the bank of stay
in this utterly rain. No plunder
plumes a plain of play-
fed flame—such fire knows no misery, no grief
that lasts, no gloom, no jay
frantic with its thievery.
My love is a leak of rapt in the roof,
my love is a leaf fish
rising, a bucket of hundred-proof
leaves—they tumble, calm, and sublimate
the rain (it claws and hoofs
a land-locked heart); they bait
the hungry pelican; they fill her bill
with stems, the fish of wait.
Beneath each weedy hill
and sympathetic willow? The little songs
of frogs; the loiter rain. The gulls,
before, bombarded always with their longing.
Hither only lovebirds now, crazy with their pawning.
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