In the Boudoir of a Raindrop

Towering and glowering beyond
my New York City window, clouds
indwell with prospects of a deluge:

peering out at them, I blink –
and in the visual equivalent
of “plink,” a sudden catapulting blue

imbues my inner lid-screen:
forms a little boudoir made of shower,
shooting up in which a small

spermatozoic-seeming globe of head
atop a little curving water-thread
looks straight into my liquid eye:

flatly staring at me leaning towards it,
waiting for a meaning. It seems
to want to stay. It hasn’t gone away.

.