cry the river

 
it is the weeping of angels that makes the rain. ominous black horses
stampede across the sky, cumbersome as clouds, ridden by cavillous
Valkyrie, as they lament the tears of their virginal lovers. their
heartbeats are the fury of thunder, echoing, & javelins of lightning are
manifested in the flash of their eyes.

ride down the tempest. even in this broken, desolate city, the storm can
be that much a poem. I harbor in the loneliness of a bleak café. the
waitress is serene in her reverie, far away from here, but she keeps my
coffee warmed well beyond a second cup.

the night passes like a gimp in a roller rink, so I watch the rain thru the
misted window, till the black glass becomes the portrait of a woman,
the raindrops matted perfectly on her face. like she was born with that
sorrow engraved in her skin.

she’ll be the story of a woman, in a book of sepia pages. I won’t write it, but
merely insert myself as the wayward drifter. we’ll regard each other from
distant corners, & she will suffer in her desire to be held, & to be kissed.

maybe she’s a woman I knew long ago, as far away as yesterday.
as pretty & as sad as a walk in the rain…


(Art: Roberto Baccarini)