fat drops of slow rain
come with that spring smell mud and
naked easter grass.
i got home before
the sun set, after three days’ drive
from hell to blue grass
from davis to room
twenty-five of that paint-chipped
old hotel, heaven
where all kinds of birds
sing the morning in and no
devil can find me
the road home is not
easily spoken of but
that smell says it all.
fat drops of slow rain
and time spent in the good dark
thinking of no one
and nothing, none of
my friends or enemies or
those desperately loved
none of the summer
camp rain nor the winston rain
nothing but water.
i fell asleep there
the first time i probably
slept in six bad months
