The wet monsoons we summon
over a lifetime enough to fill a summer
swimming pool—Mara, Danube, Snake—
spotting the pillows, all I cannot hold in.
This is the day’s release in migratory
egression, when the night disk slips by,
when owl hunts and everything hides,
caulking dry the mouthside by morning.
Count the kisses we leave behind,
those that bore fruit in full lips,
those that found their fates rommeled
in deep Saharas so roundly forsaken.
If I can dissuade sleep, I might keep
these for you, the wet monsoons we
summon when our weathers clash to make
what floods the riverbed with our love.
February 19, 2014