The slow overture of rain, 
each drop breaking 
without breaking into 
the next, describes 
the unrelenting, syncopated 
mind. Not unlike 
the hummingbirds 
imagining their wings 
to be their heart, and swallows 
believing the horizon 
to be a line they lift 
and drop. What is it 
they cast for? The poplars, 
advancing or retreating, 
lose their stature 
equally, and yet stand firm, 
making arrangements 
in order to become 
imaginary. The city 
draws the mind in streets, 
and streets compel it 
from their intersections 
where a little 
belongs to no one. It is 
what is driven through 
all stationary portions 
of the world, gravity's 
stake in things. The leaves, 
pressed against the dank 
window of November 
soil, remain unwelcome 
till transformed, parts 
of a puzzle unsolvable 
till the edges give a bit 
and soften. See how 
then the picture becomes clear, 
the mind entering the ground 
more easily in pieces, 
and all the richer for it.