The Sky Is Clear, But It's Raining

Donald Britton

Under the trees, where everything

Is still possible in prescribed doses:

Hundreds of accordion-like units

Without edges. But there is no unwinding

Of minutes to stay the execution

Of a rain-shot weekend in early

Beach weather, no elixir

To revive the amputated flower

Still kicking on its ghost-stem

In a bowl of water, no direction

In which to steer

The hapless, puzzled out-of-towner

Other than straight ahead,

To the sheer drop-off

Where his guidebook gutters

Or deposits him, addressless,

In thin air.