THE SPACE BETWEEN RAIN

Now is what happens when
the spinning blue buzz saw
grinds the week down to powder
pummeled by the hardening rain
into soft paste that clogs gutters
and drainage ditches. Rain shuts
one thing from another by making tangible
the curtain between. At the same time, the space
between rain connects what the curtain parts. All this
is changed on Friday night because we force the curtain closed,
we drag it behind us dragging in the muck-who cares,
it's out of sight. But when it rains
soul says to week You are shiny and clumsy
trying so hard to have been a good week
you're just a book bag dragged in the rain
you're just a flat just a wet just a black
road passed over by red taillights
you have nothing of your own. Week
wants to sit in a heated car, radio
draining out the window mixing with the leafy
molecules. The remains of now crumble,
a cinnamon doughnut in the bottom of the book bag,
powder saturated by rain: sugar, flour,
fat, paper, ink, a sludge streetlights carlights
can't reach. Blue buzz saw shadow darkens
the curtain the rain it tears up everything it's on its way--