The Rain

Staccato rain drops fall on packed dirt roads,
And there’s neither dust nor heat in the afternoon,
As the cars glide past in their dusky way,
As if each were the same ghostly color and shape,
Glistening with water rather than dust,
Line-streaked paint rather than rust,
And the sky has no sun today,
And neither has the sickly moon, nor sickly stars,
The cement sidewalks crack quickly,
As the earth shakes and the ground quakes,
Like a broken dish within the universe,
And very shattered into awful fragments,
That separate slowly mile after mile,
In their own infinitesimal style.

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