As If It Wanted Soul

As if in an unconscious consultation
with a condensation of itself
the air spats rain – squeezes,
involutes its oxygen and hydrogen

into a drenching self-solicitation
that might just as well, as this one does
(for all the insight it can gain),
rush down a drain. Silly, wishing

atmosphere were curious and sentient:
nothing isn’t prey to some frail human
vanity: this, of thinking soul into
a bunch of molecules – or thinking soul

at all. But: such dark awe – to watch
the deluge fall: as if it wanted soul,
some inanition bleeds. Maybe we’re
the only consciousness it needs.

.