His long, tall cloud
Comes down like a sailing ship making berth
The eager finger of announcement
an unexpected mountain
seen
only by the desert people
They keep their distance
And the sky doesn’t budge
But there is plenty of rain
A man stands in the streets,
he stands upon the streets,
he builds streets on streets,
he hangs from the rafters of crafted heavens
Until he’s got your attention
One left the city,
and did not rise to stand
but felt it worth the wonder
to sit
and wait
to hear
more and more and more
His mouth raised in a fist
He struck out like a duck
Babbling his thoughts
In twisted genuflection
perhaps
His sign raised as high as his voice
But no further
Making deaf the ear of friendship
A tribesman made his visit
cupped his hands
drank, and then departed,
remarking that the wind
bore scents of honey
The one who left the city lay back,
opened his mouth
and drank his fill
The Replanted Writer 