The rains came then,
And the clang of bludgeon on bronze shield.
Our clouded oracle split apart,
Spiders’ webs in the spyglass eye,
Deep in the heavens’ cave.
Right here, an old dry road points nowhere, or not,
Dust and sand, and decay, and Poinciana,
Our purblind path, song, and flight of passion-swell.
Again the rain comes, slick on metal,
Living tendrils in dead grama.
This flat place was alluvium once,
Pestled rock and Poinciana pieces,
Rubbed down now nearly to molecules.
She announced, “I say it, My-O-Nez’, me,”
Indicating the important condiment.
Such sacred seeming in this dark, when
A breeze-flung portmanteau
Bled thrice against the windscreen,
And caught us sleeping,
But this is now, and that was then.
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Submission Name: Bayou Teche
