Rain

The rain must pour, the windows fogged; 
The gurgling cyclone spits and gongs
inside the bone-spring of acid 
where mucus seesaws up and down

The selfsame fountain feeds my eyes 
Aboil as conscience of a saint; 
or fish soup that prolongs the strain 
of homeless underneath the rain. 

Short Poems #5-6

This Vine

I rain, I shine.
This vein, this vine,
I feed, I wine,
in vain, in vain.

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Water

Water for the lady,
flavored for gourmands.  To
freedom for the slaves, their
sodium graves.