Ebb and Flow:

You spiderweb the rain. Act
as if it wasn't everywhere. 
          Umbrellas flare out as if 
          rubber reptiles and birds
          feather you, hide you
          and your cumulus
home. Gray as shivering bougainvillea
as if web-petals. Lights grow:
      one off
             on again
                    fade to blank. Flounder
as only a flounder can ebb. 
And flow through water. Arms
      tucked into sides
            look like fins to 
      fan cold flames. 
Stalactite down, jail-house
prodigy. Learn with the learning of 
sharks. Your arm-fins
       will breach water.





The Folly of a Love Story:

A toad in the desert
holds an umbrella for the 
sky, thinking
"Give me, give me."
              There is no rain here. 
Only the clouds hold
chrysalis ice, and the 
drought-to-erase-all-
droughts that follows. 
Icicle people strain open ribs
moving back muscle mass 
to reveal pumping hearts. 
 "Give me, give me."
               There is no warmth here.


  



Fallout:

Less sense of time than
Stonehenge blocks ripped in 
two halves to parallel 
brother with brother. 
                    Urgency! Urgency!
                    Our red-brick follies
                    are tearing fabric 
                                  seams. 
Give us answers. Goldfish
are falling from nuclear skies. 
Torrent of mutilated corn 
husks—wither-yellow,
abounding—are seeping down 
blue clouds. 
                  That rain burns us.