Radar says the rain is done
pelting the tin roof, giggling
in the downspouts, in the black
super moonless, all-night storm
I slept through mostly—says
rumors of miracles and magic
cannot be reasons for the present
cold and wet upon my bare chest, or
flashlight drippings, diamonds
sliding down the rain gauge.
I believe what I want, personify
the needs of the smaller elements,
the addicts in our dry community:
all the off-the-wagon drunks afloat
with the miracle of rain undone.
2.38″
drycrikjournal 