A Fire Was In My Head

Here is a meditation on spring rain.  It isn’t quite W. C. Williams.

Map Dreams

Once rain falls
for six days
and no one
on the city grid
meets my eye
or shakes my hand;
they are hunched
and I am hunched.
We keep to our hoods
and stooped shoulders,
regard our toes;
we are nowhere:
on these days
I return to my pillow
soggy and ready.
Closing my eyes
to the flood
I anticipate
a little esper:
Drifting in a dry sky
of crisscross lines
falling in a dream
to dry, dry oceans
full of hurricanes
like borgesian swans.