WE WON’T DANCE WET TONIGHT

 

 

Tightly does the minute creep

On the clock,

And sleep inches its way

Towards a dreamy chasm

From which emerges a flower

Of fathomless pleasure

And unseen pain.

 

A yam sends its slender shoot

To shoot out in this fray

Up above the terraces, water

Making a canopy unto itself

A shade or sparkle

Of wetness

Perceptible, among leaves

Shaking in the shower of rain.

The sound plays on sheet roofs,

On stretched tarpaulin, dead leaves, plastic

Water upon water, upon earth

Of the flows through wounded roads and crevices

Opening up the heart of mud

Of earth, in the midst of passing traffic.

One looks for the graphic equivalent of rain

The downpour suffices

Streams that bring forth

The skin from under the garments wake

The smoke from a wet cigarette

Is all the fire that one can draw on

Remnant of a walking fireplace,

Puffing coal engine.

 

The fallen tree of the street-side

In a mesh of electric wire and cables

Landslides, stalking death on cat-paws

Green eyes turning red,

Flashing ambulances screaming past

Masked aloofness, distance

The washing of hands

Where death dances on its many paws

Where shall we put our flailing limbs?

We won’t dance tonight

The dark oil on our limbs laid waste

Smooth movement passes on

Umbrellas blooming

As if we were flowers blossoming in the wind.