Easy to take, this gray that travels
with a vague wet heart. It gestures
the room, bothers the pale cool
random of the sheets. Out the window
all the trees begin the blossom, sense the shape
an outstretched limb desires. Who will notice
this ritual of practical want, this terrestrial
symmetry? We move as deliberate
as the earth's acquiescence, its sleepy whir,
both slow and hard turning
into this sweet approaching storm.
All the prolonged sense until the wet.
Finding the colors of grass and hay
under skin. The cool cliché
of all this water, its attendant beauty,
while the world decides itself in shapes,
the inside spun of something dark
and sullen. In rain, the way the torso
knows to turn into the curves of wish
and all the gestures of circumnavigation
will make the room atop the earth adhere
like a tiny centrifuge. Outside,
the crickets sing their bodies, amazed
at their legs as tongues: such idea, such dreaming.
