Uroboros
(Spring)

Sometimes the rain is seeking itself in its plunge from cloud to parking lot
(that point of reflection luring each drop
down, closer, towards its own image).

Sometimes the words that rise from a just-disked field are lies,
and the crows laugh at you if you appear to listen too carefully.

The smog creeps into our dreams disguised as “the Rat”
or “Tooth of the One Who Ate His Children,”
and the bombs want to return home, deep into the heat of earth,
through steel, bone, concrete, sand
(sand becoming liquid glass: a memory of the first world).

This rain wants to be ocean again.
It falls through nine layers of cloud
(the way we fall, each night, through sleep into someone else)
searching out its beginning in its end.