The clean of the rain juiced from
heaven. Falling. Dry yields to circled
wet. Water shines rust and doors
with stains.
Weedy city lots. Moist. Damp.
Spiny nameless plants stand erect.
A stubborn aroma released. Broken
bricks, colorless, beaten by time.
An open window. A scratchy song
finds legs, dancing to the street;
diving, splashing, making wet without drips.
Shoes break puddles. Gutters parade
floating papers. Marching with music.
Swallowed at the corner. Dropping. Gone.
Roger Singer 