Precarious, this light that hangs from a fissure,
ties itself to a wet rail with a tendril and pulls,
as if the nether side of a storm breaks,
upturned and pillowed in a thimbleless pool.
On the plains, shipwrecks poke their prows cotillion,
sway in the studied drift of sorghum and wheat
threshed in the hoglight of another wet afternoon.
But this, this beam is a rope on which finches cling,
like all the yellow slickers tight-wound in the rain,
perched and approximate, urged by our mothers
to the blueline and green, greenline and glitched,
stitched up, canvassed, vain and soon impervious.
Sirens call for a lick and a swallow slams into it,
hayracked and netted. Sirens call for a lick
and a ridgepole sags. Sirens call for lick and —
our mothers give us rain.
Our mothers give us rain, fingers trained
in knots and bindings — jackets stitched to weather it.