The rain here is peculiar.
The peculiar rain would fall
like a slipped disc
in the house of a grandmother
slowly having her threads pulled
And when it landed, at a man's
door, on a clothesline,
in a boat of migrants
at the dinner table of extra sharp silverware,
Then when it landed, that peculiar rain
would type itself into the nose
of a woman sitting patiently
in an attentive audience.
The peculiar rain would glide
listlessly down the fulcrum of her thought,
glisten in her listening glare,
and right itself at the moment
she nodded her head.
They had no hands, no feet, no ears, no mouths,
only pieces of paper on stalk like long flowers
They had no eyes, no toes, no teeth, no fingers,
only long threads of wool attaching each to each
They had no hair, no noses, no chests, no knees
only clothes of an incredibly invisible hue
They had no words, no sight, no thoughts, no feeling
just four round wheels of empty rubber and soil
I left my keys on the windowsill this morning
and when I came back for them found
four bluebells had grown out of the plaster.
Four perfect blue bells, forgotten by autumn,
Not yet grasped in spring:
Four bluebells where my keys had been.
Four dropping heads to whisper their
Ambivalence. My hands were itching
for the keys I’d lost. My hands were itching
for autumn to come. My hands were lost
with the absurdity of four blue bells where
my keys should have been.