The rains rival Noah’s flood.
and now it dribbles,
and now it pours
like waves of emotion, unexpected.
A friend describes the phenom that pounds
our ears, vessels,
as an angry sky.
And two by two, million by million,
small squirming pink bodies spread unto the road.
venturing from the terra deep,
they offer themselves, hoarding the wet,
drowning in the warmth of each drop.
Inside a bookshop,
nestled within a long stretch of lamp-lit main street,
hairy bodies clothed in a palette of colors come from the corners,
moving inward from the depths of the shacked-up shoreline.
They chatter as they move,
their conversation is a noisy haze of language,
as they cozy into chairs.
Air is scented with musk of colognes and café coffee steam,
and from a podium fall words
which dribble and pour with certain breath.
they fail expectations to clatter to the ground
or fall away into someone’s abyssal gray-matter.
Words claim their afterlife, instead:
a resurrection with tree and thought,
ink and paper,
until walls of a bookshop invite them in on a rainy day
to sit for a long while.
