By Mike O’Connell
rain is here
get wet
wash your hair on the porch
float a little boat in a bucket
stomp a puddle
(that’s why they’re here)
as wounded leaves
plunge from safety
rushing to drains
seeking oceans willing to
accept them
no matter how far
merging with the sea
as if it were an additional wind
just another ride for
wandering parts of
broken fauna
into the frontiers
where trees are forbidden
where seaweed points the way
swaying to the movement
of the moon collecting
objects for its silt collage



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