the windy reversal that made us wetly laugh
in that memorable June when the smoky rain fell
with a dripping insistence that cloaked the roof in musk
and aired the tarnished chimes in a sad, jazzy arpeggio:
in simple times the black climate is an arc that vaults
from downy tufts to the scraping of leather soles.
but the enchanting static of chanting matins
made a scarlet vacuum in the drainage tube that year-
when all we wanted was a savory tear to fall on salty lips:
why was it so hard to bring red closure in a time of dripping rain?
being unable to count the diamonds was not a crime that resonated
in the sparsely screened gazebo with deck chairs slowly yellowing.
the abstract pleasure of pulling purple smoke
can be easily settled in a variety of manners,
from blackly noxious to the wispy puff of now.
living a half-step beneath the melody of shrubbery,
your rough napkins could not rub away the rouge.