We trip in depth. The particle theory in the green mop of rain clouds surprises the running trees. People sting zest into mainframes and coast for forgiveness. This is the radiant day of rain.
After closing the silicon doors, into which eerie family noises segregate with transponders (but why?), the rush of pencil thin possible versions arrives with lucky membranes. The coast will probably be clear.
Everyone looks to the coast. Are turkeys so elegant as to fly across the street? Is it too early when the red sun rises behind dominant rain clouds? Would science follow the fiction that we've prayed to?
Under the questions, a gummy sense of saying so. Others say so too, they must be too proud. The dodgy apparatus of remembering to return with epiphany, Persephone's sister, qualifies us for ready winks at the proposed sun of tomorrow. We're reading a book right now, more or less.
When that book is finished, done, burned into the brain, then the rain can accommodate another rush for politics. George Bush is a season, ticked off regularly until zero makes the finish. Much dramatic interplay within that story. Then we see lightning, a building tsunami, and a quiescent run of tornado days. Summer, it hits us again. The story becomes more fluid as we look
Rain fills buckets from heaven. Indeed, heaven invents rain, then offers buckets. Heaven brings the idea of word in between, when the bucket overflows. We need the flooded forest with its landscape claim settling to roots. Roots swim in this abundance and radiate towards news. News carries heaven. The buckets fill to overflow, and each step that we take sinks in. We have the rain in mighty collusion, bringing, after effect. And soon the sun, in a nameable century, will throttle the old ways. Soon, too, transport begins with a small insect, its chasing bird, its looping in the sky. Where love begins, rain collects. The buckets of heaven fill and fill, until filling no more. Limits lift us to newer sentences. Each period contains a rain of buckets filled with rain. When we tire, and the rain eases, the sun, surely, will know us. Even this morning posits grey as the new green. But green is only one of many, and we will soon learn to join in.
The Plastic Sense of Playing Fair
In an autumnal scene, forgetting the spring rain, a glow of orange engaging a sentence that runs thru coarse adjectives. People stare, starting from their numbers to the crown worn in the last act. Everyone is jilted or jostled, until movement itself seems to relieve a shadow of ache. Times fracture, peasants gather by huts and dance, and poor Giselle, her heart bad. All hearts struggle, even allowing diffidence among cherubim. Rain starts to act like process, tho we wish it were fall. Leaves unencumber, a burial starts and never stops. The poor poem, in the words of this chase, can only arrive at a neat locution. Such never fulfills the best of the drama. The Red Sox send the sky high with criminal wattage thru the night. Buoyant animus contains the city, even the truth of taxis. Prince Albrecht in a can, say, and you phone for a moment; meanwhile, the Prince leaps and flips his legs. You could try this at home, when the beaming rain settles into your night and sleep is only a matter of choice. The dreams, nearby, that you come to, weird elastic use of orange hues and the stress of fading. So much remains, still, folded, with the elegant grime that only a city can manufacture. Will anyone tip over? Might splendour become particle, in a mass reference to some logic that inheres in the pieces we take home? If these merrymaking saturdays settle into rain called fog, then sunday, weary, means a new ocean to contain. Dance seems envious when we are so conditioned. Poor Giselle, poor Hilarion, poor Albrecht. A lot of death just goes by the board, but this is a nation of equivalence tests. The grey trench reveals a brood of green that stammers with our first-born thought. Autumn in the dance ahead is a tower of prose turned carefully awry. Sleep doesn't general the entire march, but uncovers certain portions of the drama. In the end, it left nothing vilified to stand and clap. Such is the performance in a word or two.