November Monsoon

Mirror the death
in this Sunday afternoon;
Obliquely
the voice of the breeze the
most odd & perfect silence, like
peace of a bottled ship
and wave-less seas; or seas
which only make a tiny splash
against boulders of legs; or
- (the reverie snapped by
the jarring screech of a maid
screaming for the neighbor’s
howling baby to stop - her moments too
must have this peace of Sunday death)

- And suddenly the decision
of the rain to fall; suddenly let go
and raggedly fall, like a giant straw doll
torn piece by piece and scattered
- All of this moment rising & approaching
to fulfill one purpose among several
of this still, live thing
sitting on an old cane chair
in a still, old porch -
To give this body succor,
to cajole this mind, to nod
sagely, despite everything -
odd, odd