The Weather

“Nobody ever talks to me about the weather.” Quentin Crisp

Well, it’s this way, see.
The consternating sea of
psychic surreality in me suggests
the thing to be is something
rude as public pee and suave
as just the right degree
of ripened brie. But oh! – here
comes the storm, and everything
feels warm and wrong, as if
a sore suggestibility were
worming up to underscore

each longing one had trampled
on as if it weren’t crucially
excruciating: now a Spring rain
falls and cleanses everything
and I smell like a vinyl baby
doll all sweet and talcum-
powdered: clean and slick as cream.
(Sweetheart, this is not a dream.)
Snow is the precisely right
experience for us today: something
to envelop in soft clouds of cold,

to stop us from this dastardly
biology that makes us hot
and wet and fosters mold.
But now the Summer rules again,
and we are back where we were
when we started this. Kissed
by a profusion of humidities
all over our extremities: pickled
in a prickling sweat – numb as sin,
and feather-fine. But come
on in, the weather’s fine.


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