poem 289 of a poem a day for 2012

shape-shifting, the passing lanes of kilns

being someone’s baby in the rain

turns the asphalt to flags

like my legs after sex

buckling  with needs

bleeding water near

the slow oxidation of rust

past the scream of oxygen

and heaved rib cages

pain is what I let go of first

left signal and all burst

as if a long forgotten foul ripe cause

that sounded good

at the time when I first mouthed it

in slow syllabic crawls

now it is just pavement

rendered with mile markers

that look like tombstones

and broken tided glass

in those windows with

those old wooden frames

and rope pulleys

and peeling paint

stealing away

to find the smoothed edges

of my jagged tide pulses

every vein and artery

that mimics

the ways of water

and gravity

and the shapes

I take inside me

spun smudged

potter’s smiling

strong hands

gentle glide

to a hollow form

and this is how

I become filled again

in the fields of

a blooming petal

kept-mouth-shut

quiet rain

someone says

take my hand

and wet-clay

your world again

the constancy of

your chaos pours

with the rhythm

of an old soul singing

children’s songs that say

you want every why answered

as you breathe awe and wonder

in the deep gaze of rats

being led by pipers

to the mountain halls of kings

scrying lightning along the way

lightening the load

of shadows beneath

a tremble cling of leaves

at the beginning of Autumn’s

tropical courtesans

those rakish finger-caravans  

that bring back

the sentinel arms

of the bare silhouetted

trees again

no road

can be a womb

that holds

a thirst like you

so go ahead

the songs sing

take that hand

and be someone’s

baby in the rain

EJR ©