it has been a slow coming:
     the rain was supposed to come...
but always that
thick sludge of humid air...

then the lightning... no thunder:
therefore no rain...
by all earth's low creatures
this yawn of the pantheon...

               and now... a near
mythical point: exact...
         a flash of lightning -
the clouds so thick you can notice
a blinking eye -
but not the shredding electric
vein in the sky...

  but then the thunder...
   and moments later...
                   a future a baptism...
a relief a way of catching
words into a net
adjective-noun complexes...

            how generous the slightness
of the breeze...
like the term kiss in snooker...
  for days since this
beginning luck...
walking like a buttered itch...
walking like a tenticle reworking
a sponge...
        
              will the skies open
with there be a leftover gamble...
will there be an easing...
with the pennies finally fall...
and then...

            as that everymore
ineffectual prayer...
     the veil of materialism
and its sensibility
                    in the ordeal of science...
the rain fell but there
was no flood...

              by morning
an empty promise of leftover puddles
also boiled over...
    this air the suffocating
presence of a blister...

         however - a blissful interlude
in... wishing to experiment
with licking ice...
                  nothing: literally so...
one could hope for
any sort of a knotting
                       to a baron of sleep.