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.