with its rustle of descending silk. Rain, rain, 
the cascading rain outrunning its own skeins in the lilting
   dark. The loquacious rain, glissading across
            the drip-garrulous leaves. Tipsy

      rain, puddling, wetting its own socks. Rain’s
swirl at my feet smelling of leaf musk. Rain falling
   like seed-gobs in the street-light’s tumbledown gloom.
            Sifted rain, purling, paying

      its way while its veil makes a thin distance.
Rain spiccatoing over wavelets and their hilly crests.
   Rain cashing up along the skyline of gold-minted lights.
             Rain nibbling at the grass

      with broken teeth. Crestfallen rain leaving
the road, then riffling through the lop-eared treetops.
   Rain tanglefooted, half out of its clothes. Sweeps
             of rain like hair,

      like pampas stalks, wind-tarried, bending; or tall,
ornamental, moving louchely and skew-whiff. Rain’s
   drops when they begin to fly as though they’re being             
             shuddered off  

  a shaggy dog. Rain wayworn in the slippery
night, drumbling across awnings, gutters, windows, walls
   and slowing down those tittupy drops until the sky
             like a new god glozes

      with a little rollicking thunder and lets the first
light through in luteous gloops. But then more rain, more
   clouds stacking up, rain that will come down fast
             again, like grain from gunnysacks.