There is something about, I hate poems that start with that phrase, there is something about
but there is
there is something about the way, I hate anything that starts with that phrase, the way is not meaningful in that it locates the listener outside of the meaning about to be unleashed
there is something about the children in the rain
please ask them to come in and think about them
instead of yourself next time
think about them
think
she
I heard three drops fall here
– as they did all over the city
– and then it was much quieter
it stills the breeze,
silences the wandering cars and
erases the arguing couples on their balconies
children drift into
sleep and the dead mean
stop trying to access their online bank accounts
the silence is palpable and only the drone of a thundering norton
the bridge over death gully weeps as it passes each vibration aging
that concrete and you can hear it creek along its sturdy veins
in chorus churns the valley and the brittle leaves that line both sides
by the time it reaches the house on the edge of the crest
it sounds like a hoarse whisper a steady but strained voice
and it told me what to think
and when to die
the ageless formula
failed to bite
the lid of the coffin fell in
the children ran around the house
kitchens painted blue
they filled up their kettles and placed them over furnaces
boiled milk prepared and being cooled for baby
the plate of cut vegetables at the side
all laid out in sequences
uncounted and unsorted
everything set aside.
the wood and the measure of the mystic
the spoon carries the oil from one country to another
a drop was spilt on the border as the carrier missed a step
changed her mind something she said on the phone was left out of the story