Rocks of Rain

The amused freckled moon slinked its bow around the bar of clouded light.  
In bar-speak it meant to see clearly through the iridescent red, blue and green that sprayed the ungaurded mint painting.
The cup overflowed, poured its mercury into the smelted dark,          
and a neon red gripped onto the satellite's sprawled calves            
and dressed it down and up the skyline like clenching starfish.  
          
The studded stars on a string of earth, on strings that fence the borders,  
slide off in the excavation.            
The harped Leos of silver tongue            
sing-song out in the spotlight steam   
and arch against the flow of the moonbeam            
that prowls in pose            
giving the spine over into a crawling hunt,    
then back into an open angle where the eagle leaps the sky            
with glossed eyes, white eyelids,            
still upward            
from the hands of the tides propping the mountain            
as the trail dives to the string that never unlooses            
as we know that curiosity may lead to danger, though by and past the heart,    
we acquaint with these dances.
            
Falling down,            
as all arrows of the night do            
to their own corner            
to dream and make tears if the constellation is leaning toward the dawn's ears.            
As the oscillations of that light permeate  
and the night unties its feet to warm curl into the crystallic breath voices of nosey tunes      
of other pangs of the growing universe  
and the palms of the palm tree threaded in folds and bun tilt their head and lean into the mumbles of words and the dock's arms. Some elves are plucked from soy fields.  
    
This evoked Mississippi passes through the hands of another typewriter
and the drums pound into the sand
another innocence of boat flight
over the taste on the lips and the peppermint of the shore            
that kept it there in her engine grinded cool rhythm, scrubbing away from and then down into while the scoop rationing for a riverside castle wears down raw with the cup of some wandered fingers and clasping thumbs playing catch down on the corner,
that had in previous slid down in green the pierced Leos and their winding road
feeding back into the inquiry, 'till clock propelled the moon off the oneness in the fleshy mesh of its own reflection.
    
Herbs in the marsh spoke goodwill to that departed ferry that rose from the drop of sprinkled melodies united more in mind than by the room's fill of ears.     
The rain comes more like dew to me.