The crimson tips of
Sundown's deep orange
Fingers
Trace each detail of the
Landscape; slowly yielding
To the wall of steel gray
Promise of storm
Swallowing blue.

Let us bring this bottle
And a chair out onto the
Entrance stairs; under shelter.
Sit on my lap as
It all hits.

Everything is drum.
A roofless room
Water walled
Deluge draped
Pink noise of drops;
Multitudes of molecules.

I love you, my woman.  
I love you slightly more
When it rains.

If I give you midnight skies with billions of white stars
or rivers flowing with milk and honey
that lie on a fertile land with roses and tulips blossoming in the misty air
will you feel my love

The bird sings, not for an audience, but to satisfy its happy soul.*~ Amitav

These kinds of stories are hard to find.
I posted up in a bar between
nowhere and a town named Ida
(probably named after some
sweetheart, that old southern name),
and in the characteristic openness
that I can only find during my travels,
I decided to say,
"hey stranger."

It was early in the evening,
he was a traveler too,
but of the trucking sort,
ashen eyes and
pale breathy skin,
we got talking amid
electric neon glow and
the pale blue light
that shown in through the rain.

His name didn't matter,
I won't tell you his name,
but the truckers know thumbers
(there are 5000 or so
across the country
at any given time),
and so he told me of a thumber.

This thumber was in the thunder,
clothes torn and eyes wide,
and with a mind that was,
at that point especially,
oblivious to the solidity
of the dry towel that was
set on the solid truck seat,
and, what a mess this boy was,
so by appearance, I presume,
it was easy to ask,
"what in the hell happened to you?"

It went like this:
the thumber turned those
wide open eyes
(I imagine he was shivering),
and told of how he was
walking, backpack and all,
and of how he smelled a storm
approaching, how when he
saw the treetops bending,
he expected the rain and
pulled a waterproof cover
over his pack just in time,
it started pouring.

This time the thumber,
he said he knew he had to
keep going,
he said he didn't like rolling
dice, no, he said it was a cheat
because if you knew enough
about throwing die the die
land the same, they land
the same enough.

So,
listen, have you ever
walked through heavy rain?
You get dizzy, but
in some deep part of your mind
in the spray, the insurmountable
lukewarmness stealing
a little with each blow,
you lose yourself,
and that's what I imagine
happened to this thumber.

At one point, the thumber
knew ground no more,
that's all he said. He said
he landed one county
over, that's all he said.

And by the jingling
of the die hanging
from the truck's rearview mirror,
one of the truckers laughed
and said *******
as the story of the thumber
came around,
what in all hell else could
you say?
And the thumber wiggled
his head and gave a queer
sneeze.

Against the neon glow
I peered at the trucker,
you can't tell an honest
man by his eyes but
you can tell it by his breath.
I shook my head and said,
"that's a kind of story that's
hard to find."

The fall of any man is
hid
in forbidden things.