Click here to read an introduction to this poem.
Hello day, I wanted to talk to you about the weather,
though I never stop talking about it in blood and breath,
neck muscles, the way my feet slide across the pavement
or this head drinks up the light. But I only get so far
and then the horizon’s wandered off again. This body’s
opening to the pinkish gleam that rises – rose – on the
outline of a cloud behind black branches and I wanted to
tell you, day, or weather (surely you’re the same thing),
how your rain of events, this endless rain keeps the door
stuck, the hours running on empty. The rain is what
I am. But how are you, day, and what season are you
bringing in searing bird calls, or a wind that unwraps
the invisible instant, its far-off dust drifting into the edges
of our speech? The isobars move in. On the underside of
atmospheric pressure, time spills in a cloud of what might
never happen, if only it wasn’t already. Good. Morning.
