The Normal Hydrologic Cycle, It Does Not Always Happen

If she lisps, a little, when he talks to her, when she listens to him,

It’s because his lips beat a kickdrum future against her ears and eyelids and tongue

And muffling her mouth was a salty gray ribbon of loneliness tight round her tongue.

It unwinds of a sudden,

And the salt which in ordinary motion

The mists maroon, returning to sky,

Is washed and flooded and dashed and rushed and carried along

In pillars of Dead Sea waves rushing up to meet with the clouds before nature ordains;

                                   

The normal, the gradual vaporization rushed up in a mad mighty dash for the raining;

If she lisps, believe it, the whole world sees the Red Seas parted

and loses its sibilance, clasps its atmosphere to its glad blue

head, and trembles and shakes in awe, watching for what,

of the things that they say, that she says, that he says,

They will do,

In anticipation

of love proving true,

please God, and

Prays for precipitation.