The Predicates of Rain
A low sun rakes the clouds, those scabbled blues
and corals reminiscent of Toulouse
-Lautrec. A whiskey-jigger silver scums
the pools, until the day’s last tide succumbs:
a keepsake thread of disregard, a stain
of circumstance, bled, predicating rain.
Off shore, a sink of iron hulls, buckled back
into a diagram of metal, slack,
a drifting stodge of barnacles or less—
the locals take American Express
to underwrite a troubled season, high
seas, empty nets, the toss of live or die.
The scuba shoals descend to map the wreck
of hours. Here, gutted bait fish slime the deck.
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