When the rains come

I’ve felt these caresses before,
massages on concrete thick
with the memory of night
thundering like the hooves
of some wild beast unkempt, unquestionable, breath floating
between the softest whisper
and a harried scream, the flute
passing between buildings
some swing in a far-off memory,
a child’s footprints in cement
now flooded and drowning
in that slick ichor bled out
upon the ground below,
every phrase a brushstroke
of some abstract masterpiece
both alive and quick to die
as the rains pass, the story
told on the wind concluded,
nothing left but drying kisses
dotting the cleaned street.




Filed under Words

2 responses to “When the rains come

  1. gerald

    nice and deep honey…

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