The sky here is worth stopping to
look up at.
They way the clouds meander over me
Slow like cattle,
Unhurried as though sure of their future
It is obvious we are living in a
Dome home.

When it rains
The rain slices down like a guillotine of water
All at once
All together
And heavy.
It drives itself into the hot asphalt
Which trys
to reject it
By turning water to steam.
The guillotine wins and the asphalt turns black in defeat.
The rain gathers in sheen reflecting puddles and street lights.
The wide open sky closes its weeping eyes
And the last drops are fat,
slow falling tears,
joining the others in puddles
down on the ground.
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