No, somehow it still rains. Somehow, backwater yard length
bodies of life ferment in dredges next to the Koreans in bright oranges
and the naked boys in their blistering smiles, mouth open;
I know why they show their teeth, I’ve been here at night
I’ve run past knifed mouths and dagger eyes and smelly cobwebs
I ran when I was asked if there was hope for me
like when this rain hit the sand, I did not think reality shattered
not until the sand would hit back, you know how it smells when it hits back.
Blood, I say, everything smells the same now
cold bursts of lopsided moon smiles through concrete tunnels
and floating flowers frolicking from their trees
tie plastic bags and call it when the skies are elephant-sized with grief.
It’s always grief, there is no other side
the rain only comes when the earth splashes upwards,
and small bonds amidst small ponds and worthless lives
end when our teeth begin to decay at young ages,
I have not felt young since you knocked my tooth out and I smelled
rain. This was the end of the story until next year’s rain.
Next year, stone stairs sank underfoot, and I ran because a balloon seller
sold me a dream that kites cut open and wasps tore to shreds;
threw in between crevices through which the gods speak and dogs fly.
I know it, I’ve seen it happen too many times, and I’ve seen myself die
bashed open, skull wide, dreaming of ants reading my brain for poems
in ridges amidst the rigors of the night. Fever haze,
I claw for water. Somehow it still rains.

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