February Rain

Catching rain is never quaint.
Like picking a heart in the lottery. You
Use a hat, dear. When I’m lazy,
I’d let drops pummel 
My coat. I’d be the magisterium, smashing
PENDING like rooftop beatings. I let stench,
Soul on earth, bereave my rubber shoes.
I’d let be maw on grass, where drops
Dissolve. Mist. Heaven
Looks like loess, like it’s been there
For a while. My hat is much lonelier
In a shade darker than I. Grass
Fills sight in all its stinginess.
Like sepia
Some spotlights illume the sky. When I think
It’s that old flick stuck in our VHS
The scene turns to simmer.

Funny, I never see the last drop.
Even when I’ve stretched, hands
In play. I can’t see the credits;
There aren’t cinching couples
Out back. This isn’t theater.
When the heroine turns up amiss,
The screen recedes, as it were, slovenly.
On a hill, she bathes yellow and brown
With a hat—in darkness
I hear some chins
Having napes.