The world is wet

at this time of year: torrents
fall across town, on the main street
and its crowded manifest of store
fronts, the vendors taking shelter

under flimsy plastic awnings.
When lightning flashes, the spill
of diesel from passing trucks
makes momentary iridescence.

I am not, at least, lashed to the mast
of a boat adrift in the heart of a hurricane.
Even the dogs are grateful to go indoors
where they can whimper from their caves

of sleep. Headlights of passing cars
sweep across the middle of restless
dreams. And in the hills, even the bats
fold themselves into rows of dark umbrellas.

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