Whatever the cause, I find myself lacking the energy to otherwise discuss the weather, the birds I saw this afternoon, the unwillingness of the overheated feral cats to give any attention to said birds, the coming of dusk, the lack of any specific plan for dinner, or the fact that English people will begin murdering one another on television within the hour. I am, in short, pooped, and I'll be lucky if I don't fall asleep hungry in the midst of the upcoming video slaughter and never find out who done it. Oh, heat! Will you not leave us be?
Wishful Sunday Verse
Rain
by Hone Tuwhare
I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain
If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut
And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind
the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground
the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops
But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you
you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain
