Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue Two

Michael Sandler


Come rain's seventh straight day and I begin to think possibly I'm to blame. In the gloam a yard gate pivots open, shut; a keepsake in a drawer tarnishing — forgot. A day to reminisce about lapsed love not that long ago betrayed, to crook an arm and be this hooded couple strolling up our street, cheeks braced by stings of gusty mist to effervesce in a dark sky's champagne. Your love jejune, mine a bit inexpert. Both stilled, settled, turning sharp as we sat watching reruns, full bicker in couched comfort … It's raining again. An interval and two more droplets slither on the pane; approaching, they invisibly attract, that first touch pure, distilled, even if sprung from brackish ponds — where is the moss-lipped fount where two may find again those buoyancies? They're now holding hands. Ritual of feigned connection? The desires of two beyond one clasp, a detached bracelet losing luster. How the wind gyrates and water shatters, driving windowed tears to blurs. It's not through love that we're coupled fast, and the figure of repair is hooped with loss. I waver, unable to disremember, or whisper, Try again; the gate's ajar. They've turned the corner. I'll run downstairs to the street bellowing, to clear the air. Or stand there, sodden, hoping the front may pass. In either pose, a drenched dog laid bare. I tremble to approach, to tap your arm offering fruited possibility beneath the sharpness, a half-ripe chardonnay that would, would you leave him, be as piquant on our familiar tongues as this clean rain.