The Last Rain For a While

Sometimes you have to
light a flame against the rain
to regain the senses
to remember you had them
punctured through with atmosphere
you remember the mystery of stars
and glassy limbs
how they connect over the
distance so far it has turned into years.
You had become enamoured
of planes overhead and
a little taken by metallic reflections
it takes a minute to remember
the park so nearby with its clover
you don't mind finding that your city boots
don't hold out its soak

but walking through it you remember

there's a pulse below and slower

than as fast as your shins can stand
you had forgotten the eternity of your dog
in putting out all the small fires
but with her here there's no urgency of immortality
for a minute your city ears
will strain in the silence
until slowly you can hear her breath again.
If you can, you must,
light that flame sometimes.

nov 28