Rain

I translate the constancy of that grey shower:
Chain gun of the heavans attacks water-logged
Earth, than window with it's moist spears.
Outside is all chaos, this room is an island, where I

Encroach over desk in the lamps dim glow.
My silloheute already a procession of shadows
In the small light, but I sit fixed, eyes
Focusing on the blank page. While outside the rains

Lurking drip, cascading channels, voiceful valleys
Chant it's language on the window pane
My fingers tap the paper to it's hymful drumming
In wait of the epiphany to come.  But now -

The passivity of the unprinted page is as a choir.
Palm seizes pencil, conducts each stroke, a
Frantic thing inspired, scribbling shadowesque
In articulation of the sky’s temper.  And when

The heavans roof heals, the rain stops.
Ink rivulets sign that paper now, dew
Settles the drenched earth. On that now
Printed page, it is always raining.