Sunday, March 23, 2014

It's Raining Inside James Schuyler

Not tearing the umbrellas inside out
not even blowing them side to side
just getting wetness wetter
and then the rain dwindles
but the sun has a shimmer
like it's missing the rain
and every once in a while
the trees in the park let down
a drenching
like they have to admit:
Oh I almost forgot about the rain.
So many Aprils.
And then the rain is back
in strings
like hair from a horse's tail.
Oh good. Weather everywhere.
Inescapable weather.
Even in everybody's
buttonholes: weather.
And someone has put an umbrella over
Gertrude Stein
in Bryant Park
where she squats
like a toad.
Blossoms drift past and cigarette
ash in the rain
and somewhere in a pond
koi swirl against koi like
they're rehearsing
to be a kimono.
The koi look
like they've been scrubbed
by a brick
which is why I won't leave
this little metal table
with its legs
modeled on insects
among insects.
And now it's raining
in the sunlight.
And the afternoon has a new
nip in it.
Chill April.
Rain lands on my neck
and slips further,
little geraniums of rain.
That's all right.
Long ago a rain drop
fell from a leaky ceiling
into my eye
and I lived for that.
And then walking not slow
there is my friend
decades since we've seen each other
and he knows me instantly.
The same raincoat, he says.


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