A Pleasing Land of Drowsy Sometimes rain is a wound in the heart. Sometimes it’s a hole, a phantom ache, where the heart should have been. Or it’s the head, and you’re left headless to stumble over streets, frightening everyone who happens upon you there on the sidewalk, all slick and puddled – lightning and rumble behind the hard edge of rooftops – “Ichabod!” they yell before running off, but you know they mean Headless Horseman, and you’ve no horse, but what does truth matter at such a time. Your body remembers the word for this, but you’ve no way of telling it – flailing both arms into some sort of code you wish someone (anyone) knew, only no one does. So – you lumber on, bouncing off here and there until you disappear into mist. There’s the inevitable horn, there’s the burn and scream of rubber on asphalt, then silence – except for rain. But sometimes, rain is only rain.
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poetsandartists.com
SAM RASNAKE