Forecast

Today the rain is late.
Thin slits of reason slice
my overcast eye; flashes
that unfold in jerky sequence,
silent-reel negatives screened
across twisted sheets.

I watch my feet swing over
a stilted universe; then I am
standing in a kitchen, refrigerator
peopled with familar faces
spitting alphabet letters from
wide and captured mouths.

My hand pours a dark river
into a nacreous cup. Steam rises
around the rim, sticky mist
hangs like a pall between
sudden summer storms.

I shift and see myself seated
at a scarred table, my face
a portrait in pewter, hammered
into grey skin from within.
I smile at the stranger beside me,
reflections behind rippled glass.

Coming rain rides close,
smells of old cemetaries.
I raise my head and taste
the scent of my nature-
and I am watching,
waiting for the watermarks to spread.