So he said wait and listen to the wind,
and to the clouds as they unwind,
unearthly in their dementia,
on to the streambeds they love to meander,
there to smell the cologne of aspen
and the evening wine of the gladiator.
Breathe in the thunderstorm’s mist,
let it soften our bodies to alabaster,
sculpt us together in the forest of jasper
unbothered by the earthquake and its cries.
All the world is squabbling over businesses and monuments
but it is our good fortune to know these streams,
to melt away into the rain.
They call us losers to wait on the showers—
some invisible they as real as us
we think of fondly at the moment these rebellions
never reach fruition.
Just teach me the lessons you think I have taught you
and we'll talk here all evening
smoothing with our eyes the wings of the heron,
motioning at the spots of the salamander,
deciding how else we will live.