the sky is dying
in ditches and puddles,
leavening the streets
till they swell with emotions
recycled from our crimes.
drainpipes moan like didgeridoos,
vibrating with the same water
that fell on mammoths, stegosaurs,
and before that, the howl
of young volcanoes.

when water first fell
it neatly evaporated,
playing phoenix without fire,
a rainforest of phoenixes every day�
then came human faces
and the collision with tears.

ever since, there�s been no escaping
those fat sad cheeks
and the gutters below their melodrama.
torrents have become histrionic,
storms a modem of the gods.

rain rages, wails or chortles now.
there�s no innocent praise,
no rising up with the dignity
of fresh angels.



�2006 by Chris Crittenden
~Originally Published in The Blind Man�s Rainbow