Writing is a kind of monsoon
It seems futile
to attempt a poem about rain
knowing well that everything that is to be said
has already been said.
But then writing isn’t as much about saying
as it is about feeling. And percolation of that
feeling – the blood and bone of a poem
into every vessel of your porous body,
slowly building its empire of fluff-
a redolence where to beg
is to demand
turning you slowly
knob after knob
into a floating canopy
By the time you see a boy emerge from the mist
near a window in an aeroplane
and wave at you,
you’ve realized you’re
a quintessential cloud.
You suck in your stomach in vanity and wave back.
And once the plane is out of sight,