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what grows #2

for william carlos williams:

meet me on the banks, a river between us
               walk with me down-
stream, apologies over rapids
take my hand over this screaming

river, blue and jagged
               watch stones fly down-

river, blessed but sure to land in eddies that crush
from crushed stone the river gives sand
slows, heavy with mud.  

let go of my hand,
the river widens in the hush.
take this

river as my apology.
take this cold mud, this corrosive sand.  
              watch it!

and imagine the delta.  
what grows from silt?
take stock of things

grown from our ashes .

june second, graduation week

pressure drop, ozone

smell, a breeze

then the wind. soon

tires unzip

from wetted asphalt.  i watch as a cigarette arcs, held underhand,

trails orange. a first volley. a burst

of rain. flash of electricity, thunder

farther away. storm passing?

air is sucked through the apartment, passes dying

lilacs, rushing into the street to join the storm.   

         still things,

air. low growl of thunder. another pressure drop.  

still, no rain. interstitial.  

and then a crash.  steel or concrete into steel or concrete.  lots of new sounds

for me in east harlem.  a car drives off. still,

no rain.  a rat makes someone scream.  it might be a bad summer, a hot summer.  for the last

two weeks a rat makes someone scream.  90 degrees slipped into 80 degrees. still, but

         movement.

branches blow, leaves are lit from below and

yellow.  then thunder, a bike chain.  

thunder again.  rain.  splash on leaves now dripping

yellow.  small burst of thunder

punctuate.

I think the rain sweetens the air.softens

the air i know.  another scream.  short, high pitched.  that’s the rat

scream.  the rain drops coalesce

into a tone. the air cools,

cleans. gutters start to drip with water.  i imagine the torrents.  white with the rage

of gravity.  cold rain water gathers and splashes concrete.  leaves

soak and drip. join the torrent,

the chorus.  

i always remember

summer thunderstorms, cold

rainwater.  a purifying ritual

even as a child. one more

clap, rain speeds up.  east

harlem disappears

into an older din.  

B Manning