I want to grow my hair, or cut it, 
maybe it’s the indecisiveness that kills us, not the wind. 


It’ll blow over soon, we can all go with it, skipping and wailing to keep up 
because it’s beautiful to be real, more made of carnations than bouquets themselves. 


The more rain sounds, it’s quieter 
street’s cleaner: I shouldn’t walk in socks, they’ll get soaked through 
but I have to get the mail, also soaked through. 


I never get letters anymore, just postcards - of beaches and sunsets and grass, 
never the rain. 
​

Have you seen Constable’s cloud studies, 
they weren’t meant for eyes, just practice, 
he needed some before he got to the real art 
His paintings are always dark, 
I thought there weren’t so many storms back then.