Silence.

It clatters with mockery,
And refuses to budge.

Skidding in place, hogging the
Grass in the pit of its hostile

Blue hand.

Not an inch to either side, nor farther
Away will it go.

But draw it closer and it glides on a wave
Of sweetest humidity,

So quickly as to be misremembered,
Greeting you in an unfamiliar tongue.

It's now only a matter of time--we used to
Parse the time we had left in negotiable abstractions--months, full seasons.

Parts of your body fell from heaven
In the form of rain.