Saturday, November 01, 2008


Catching the forecast,
we watch the weather,
waiting for a sign
to ease our deja vu.

We hang our coats
posthumously on the door
the aspirations draining
minutely in droplets.

We bear our companion
constant on our sleeves,
deep in the compartment
of a shoe, in the fibres of
damp old cords.

If the weather could speak
over a loud "achoo!"
or above a raspy cough
it would talk in some
foreign tongue, inviting
a translator to interpret
the long lash, the gentle
downpour of rain.

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