I.
Rain was an event, breaking through our compound,
working the amaranth brick buildings to auburn,
raspberry garlands in grass hair —
dyed blue with Rutherfordton’s
Carolina music.
No swimming in a heat storm.
We only balance on the window frame,
listen to the clouds groan over air conditioning.
II.
I want friction in this idle engine –
jumping a 200 horsepower, just to go
somewhere.
These empty roads are too long to watch —
but blame the rain, say the tires will slip.
Apathy is easy when the mountains
are stooped by oppressive perspiration.
III.
Our pool is 50 miles from anywhere,
the chain-links the apartments — we’re
neighbors in an isolation.
We lay tar and stripes over the “where-to,”
white lines floating like ribs.
Distance seems sweeter
as we drink from the milky horizon.
Soon we’ll be north — I never saw the mountains.
Ceciley Pund 