april showers bring may flowers

with lips made of copper

and hips slick with sneers,

i slide over to stop her

and to sharpen her ears;

"watch the wire,"

I tell her, with

contempt in my throat-

"hell desires,"

I tell her,

as I put on my coat.

Shining pewter

just rusted

just...almost adjusted

adjacent lines of tin windchimes,

and of nickels once trusted

sat rotting, us watching,

as she she picked up her old metals

and, licking her lips,

picked them off just like petals,

for each one she plucked, and each one she plundered

you could hear it rain down,

roar and rattle and thunder,

and that's why do this day,

when it rains silver grey

you can hear her her old swallows,

you can watch her mouth say

pittle pattle, young girl,

pittle pattle, tin tin-

smell the moist, metal air,

feel the rain on your skin.