Compare this ether-kneading rain
with wounded Ninurta's mercurial blood
after he tussled with his dragon
and the dragon bit him hard.
Compare this rain with the juvenile
sturgeons spurting through the hole
in the upturned opalescent lake
that flaps aimlessly like a broken wing.
Or with a variegated thyme-scented tongue
licking the beige off the apple crown,
so that the tree's self is known
by the two or three pulpy moons
dripping with lapis and burnt ochre.
Or with the scurrying cunei,
hurled in handfuls through the aubergine gloom,
that press in the dirt-smeared fallen sky
the first plume-like sign of your new name.
Don't halt your maundering images,
transpose them down a life, compare
this rain with anything your fading soul musters
that I may know you are still here.
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