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werewolf
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feet tracking in the rain,
an open door dilates suddenly shut.
lying perpendicular
to the roof diverted rain
each breath is like coming
in from the cold
when memories
aren't contrived,
but envision the rain,
clumping together like
wet coats by the stair.
Languid breath, like
the door closing
wind swiped rain,
over and over again,
rising and falling,
fighting against
the nervous patter
playing on the windows
pressed against our most
distant nerve endings.
You can hear stars shattered
in puddles
over and over again in the uneven barrage. Gaze out the window
at losses as quick as gains, nothing universal when we say weather like we do.
Every corner of the storm is intimate,
and one can hardly see through the deluge to the coarse commonalities which darken the sky.
Shallow graves line the street.
falling leaves undertake unfelt pressures.
pushed in flanks most people look over - thin delicate veins,
the hickeys of aphids and other parasites squirming with the desperation of the unlearned like teenagers in love, a velvet coat only fingers like ours know they wear.
Falling to their graves where even their dying bodies hungrily devour the rain.
The world seems empty of people. A tightly wrapped individual walks by, and very little can be told about them. They are walking raincoats.
It seems very romantic, everything is hidden like halloween. To see anything, you must suffer
the indignity of the cold and wet.
The oils, the blemishes, the markers of health are all washed away,
and everyone seems a source of warmth. Each raincoat is worth investigating.
The window rattles.
In the morning flowers will be keelhalled by plucking thumbs.
In their heads, people will hear
the music of harps when they tie
their shoelaces tightly,
never thinking about the feel
of cold mud between their toes.
so used to the feel of socks they've forgotten why they're worn.
But for now,
they are huddled,
each log they stack on a fire, each blanket they pull up is a memory returning from unsearched corners and layering itself on the skin in degrees of seperation as the world denies them the distractions of the distinct or the unveiled.
And what we're all imagining isn't far from what is real when what is real is so far, is a vortex which sounds like distant war drums, always advancing but never arrived.
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021107
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