This cadence makes me crave rain,
the past-ripe grapeshot of a grandstanding,
ill-bred downpour, ignited by lightning,
drowning me in a blast of bursting coins.
I’m sick of this metro- sexual drizzle,
low-salt spa sheen sweet-talking my skin,
christening me a member of nothing,
just one more sleep- walker on the sidewalk.
When will I hear the white steed’s
hooves on rock and Helicon cracking,
the freed spring speaking from the fissure?
Wasting away, I am wasting away
on vapor, caution, equivocation.
I need fire, Zeus, not fog, not you.