Rain is coming to the valley in the
places of the temples and the ivy
and the turning where if it has burned
it will now be buried

man is coming to the idling
with the rest of chances
fast unraveling
she'd rather be traveling

Pain is knowing
But the worst pains replay
any day is golden
but the soft shade of what remains
in the hours before it rains is a thing
that won't escape the final telling

not even in passing
The grays and the rails and the twist
and the tall trees marked to fall next week
to be hauled with debris
should it all not be completely buried
even the stone walls, he tells me
if a river shouldn't wash it all
out to sea

someone with spurs on the toes of her shoes
climbed a few feet up of
the trunk of a tree
can't imagine what you'd see
just a few feet up of
the trunk of a tree

The whole scene sifting
steamed stained glass is the dust in the timepiece
the sinew machine detail deteriorates glamorously
green pioneers ring about the wrecks of the previously
I browse about dreamily

Rain just a few more hours from the valley
dry rockslides slide loudly
and patter the same frequencies
as raindrops and tree leaves

Forget me, the trees breathe
and the birds sing
and the remains all splayed out
to greet thee, Rain,
and the release of the impulse of curiosity
and the replacement fears of asbestos
of rusty nails and shattered circuitry
of plasma and cancerous proximity
release me to feel at ease with leaving

Rain will be coming
to the valley this evening
the neighbors are leaving
they are packing their siftings

the gray way the TV man's feet
they keep shifting
his news crew loosely following

as he interviews that loose screw
who survived it all in his pool

last day the location's cool
but the rockslides and the rivulets
at the start of it
they'll get those too