The rain, the leaves, the storm passed.
on the earth he left the atrocious perfume
from a puddle of war, water wherever you look at it,
water and nothing else. without sunlight, a but was born to the water:
from there weeds, some little fish, the buckled edge of
a convalescent rainbow. This is how the people think
they make their shanties in the soul-, like this,
This is exactly how they grow but are forgotten.
and from the puddle a burning memory of cities is born,
and a couple of errant names that set him on fire
the way.