Water cycle #8: we can’t know a thing / without first knowing what it’s for

The tree holds / the storm. Ghost we / planted. Birch in the yard / while we sleep. There are songs about songs / & prayers that make no sense / except in rhythm. An interior monologue all about the artfully planned / neighborhoods of Japanese maples / like bruises / that can’t remember their causes. / Silence presides. / Out of no clouds / the rain comes to say / no one is not / in love. It’s a storm, / that’s all. Dark has always / been the case in most places. / Out of this horizon we sing / at each / other / in rusted words. / No . / Near / each / other in wasted urge.

Bill Neumire's first book, Estrus, was a semi-finalist for the 42 Miles Press Award, and his recent work appears in the Berkeley Poetry Review, Linebreak, Crab Creek Review, and Laurel Review. In addition, he currently serves as an assistant editor for Verdad.