storm

Got the clothes in, luckily
- piles of colour piled up in the coloured tub -
turn the music right off
no other sound
no sound at all must interfere with or interrupt
the way the leaves are being fucked by droplets
(is that word too severe?)
what I mean is that
the world is making love to itself all the time
always, but
in a particularly transparent way
when water gathers itself into tiny buds
and parachutes down into this dry and clay-struck town
we need lubrication here - for our
drought-draped synapses, for our pulses, and
for the generous, fat lady spinning beneath us
(her rainforests aspiring to deserts of sand)
who convulses herself to sleep
while we
leave lights on forgotten
and drive to the shops.
yes, we are miserable, and misery does breed
carelessness, passivity and neglect
but when
the wetness flies down to find
the spines of its green lovers, its hard-chested lawns
and some bloke’s forgotten undies on the hills-hoist
it drowns out tension (and even tense itself)
makes me run around opening windows while
worshipping the rain-shy, perfectly-black cat,
makes me want to take back
any hardness I may have accidentally
or purposefully left
lying about for you.
These autumn storms.
They are just stale summer
grudgingly working its way
out of us.