Boise A Month Without Precipitation

where does the rain fall when it doesn’t fall here
it seems logical this relentless sun should have its opposite
somewhere in the southern hemisphere drenching
children standing at the edge of marshes that once
were playgrounds, fingerling streams falling from hair to feet

here bottomland shimmers tableflat in the valley while the ridges
high up beyond the modern mansions of the gentry
bake brown then browner each evening and it’s a surprise
when the dry clouds come the crack and grate of gigantic knuckles
doesn’t split the very ground and scatter it like shrapnel

strike after strike spikes the eye and raises the hackles
the stench of disturbed ozone and something dry like dust
dug free from an ancient rockface something no living creature
could have experienced for millions of years made manifest
by the fastest and brightest fault of Earth’s nature

in the morning the city looks up to a cataract sky
just the bluest tinge of white and smelling of burning wood
with an undertone of petro chemicals’ toxic stink
as what men assembled is broken down to ash while still
we swelter sweating within another hundred degree day

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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