A book I saw on a store shelf proclaimed it was the history of rain. It had a marbled frontispiece in astringent colors; deckled edges that could ripple like a wave field. How much water did each page contain? If you laid your ear on the cover, would you hear the ache that begins the cycle, the heavy craving of deserts, gaunt sheets before the first billow? Every chapter must be damp with concordance: mist, monsoon, torrent, deluge. Inside, the sound of umbrellas clicking open and shut. Ships docking. Faces upturned.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
