So many poems are written after the rain
and I wonder what judgments will break
from the furrowed brows of an angry God
peering through his granite sky, his cut glass ceiling
if I force rainbows from out of a chimney line,
decide on that sweet smell the pits of the earth (they say) makes after.
That one blackbird tardying behind a choreographed pattern,
it loses place in the deep V of an urgent fleeing
to look at fools making more out of bed weather.
Across the city, laundry drips heavy on a line.
Stains around a neckhole laminate in gutter water.
The neighbor must have forgotten.
-ZOLA GONZALEZ-MACARAMBON
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