Sutra of the Rain

The rain is green, a portal to China,
silver sequinned toes on Regent’s Canal.
The rain is serum transforming wrinkled faces
into pure leaves, backcombed hair and skin
succumbing to the climate
of a nightclub.

The rain is a carpet that fetishises
gravity and its contours.
The rain is under-sleeve visitations
wetting our understanding
of wetness. The rain is sand
pouring into the palm, making foie gras
with gutters and bodies and the underground.

The rain is a skewed compass
inverting the seasons. The rain is un-authored
pointillistic painting, artillery, shrapnel,
humanitarian crisis. The rain is the Earth
questioning the blood of her siblings.

The rain is a forehead salute, a search for meaning
on the high street. The rain is pavement suppression.
The rain is footsteps improvising
towards dryness,
nostalgia for the underwings of trees.
The rain is negative harmony,
people compression,
harmonising beings under brollies.

The rain is anonymising
tarmac,
window,
cycle-track,
eyes.

The rain is Iago,
the creature of insides.


Inspired by the incessant London rain and Robert Bringhurst. 

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