Opening the Rain

We return covered with the carnivalesque
rains' information. We're always
up for a miracle: a godbath,
an unraveling of the dead. Out the window
the fire-epauletted blackbirds perform
lake aerial acts, architectures
of desire and destruction. Houses hold
histories, everything tethered to consonants
and vowels. I underestimated
years, the viney laws of governments,
the violence of wealth, and crowds
of loneliness. Each floorboard's a song,
a curfew. The world writes
its own poetry in chrysanthemums.
We rewrite in hours. Every thing
was once made up. Love
is voodoo, prayer a cosmetic. Here
finches fly from under covers.
Cello strings turn to fragrance.
Sleeping we understand we are never
the same. Even the trees' branches seem jealous
of all this. They break
through awnings and screens
reach through language's bright wrapping paper
into the dark religions of our lives.

Copyright © 2002 Susan Firer All rights reserved
from The Laugh We Make When We Fall
The Backwater Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission