Poem for Friday, August 30, 2013

Monsoon Season

Metal has a terrible voice.

It stumbles sot-like through a forest
of octaves. I lack the heart to tell it
so I let it sing me to sleep.

I am no trainspotter; I prefer clouds.
They stir me awake with their melodic
dirges--the price of omnipresence.

She asks how come the clouds in
monsoon season look so ominous but
bring so little rain. I tell her:

everything, all of us is a facade.