Not just rain but
a tiredness of things
dropping all around
splashingly big drops
finding their pearl shapes
spread across the clay
absorbless
"Nothing grows in this clay," said Odysseous.
"Clover, mustard, and these great wide oaks."
It was Telemechus talking. He and his father
Walking in the back yard
Things were wet and puddily
A break in the storm
Odysseous wondered
and while looking at the sky
Then back down
his gaze toward his son's
sinewy arms
his youth, enameled
yearning
wondering
"It may make the sandbars good," he finally said.
Some sixty miles away
a wave fell upon itself
like glass cracking
