Signalrain
(Summer)

Rain and pipe smoke,
the trails of diesel truck
sound and thunder above ranges.

Whiskey was never
like this: heart-rending cool, juniper
a smell beyond geography or time.

Cipher-beat on tin shed—
a monsoon of forgotten language
writes blue words on a blue wall.

Tire-skate on slick
streets, afternoon come
twilight on.

This morning’s moth,
the size of a fist, changed
sunlight into wing.

No Los Alamos scientist
has ever written
rain onto parched skin.