Weather Man, Cody Burgin

I remember the day it rained clothes,
infinite blouses, dresses, panties, bras,


falling like the first snow of Winter, only
to heap upon the ground and melt.


A woman at the door cries. Her mouth
agape and her arms spread crucified


to catch the fragile snowflakes, to make
them a part of her, before they are gone


forever, evaporating into frail memory;
God hurls thunderbolts of fuck! that echo


with zealous frustration through the soft
fog of my mind curling about my clod


innocence like a bitch about its frightened
pup, and I witness Weather’s gentle
avalanche bury the woman alive, her last
words escaping a futile grasp, like water vapor
rising through clouds; the dew condensing
below my eyes; evidence of her sublimation.