The clothesline is bearing the burden of a criss-cross patterned shirt, heavier after getting drenched in a surprise downpour. The day is lilting in its element, darkening around the edges and blurring along the contours, rising and setting with the turn of the clock. The slanting drops cut through my vision into a polyamorous light, filtering through the canopy of stringent off-white clouds. I am reading about Hiroshima. I am thinking of the drop that produced that cloud, one of its kind, one of its limitless rapture. I am swallowing water like the collective guilt of mankind through my gravel-like throat. The voice has escaped the realm of my mouth and I am holding on to this moment of decadent peace, perhaps awaiting its end into slivers of raindrops.
nature’s momentum —
tears fall down from a razed sky
in an even flow
my vision splintered
by the slanting fall of drops —
a distant cloud roars