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About this Poem 

"This poem is pretty mysterious to me. I literally hobbled in out of a rainstorm (I’d been running), and wrote a draft of it, trying not to drip water on my computer. Earlier that afternoon, Agnes, my seven year-old daughter, had written 'eggbirds' in something she was writing, and I'm sure that made me think about owls. The poem seems to me a writhing thing, full of weird expectancy, and 'fraidiness,' and hopefully, too, a little love."
—Matt Hart

Today A Rainstorm Caught Me

Matt Hart
Today a rainstorm caught me
and I still have not recovered
myself with drier blankets
The brown leaves blowing
off the trees, squirrels
and robins cheering them on, but not

cheering me     And anxiousness has an owl
by the throat, has me pill-popped up
to Heaven Hill, head spinning one hundred eighty
degrees, looking to the past and the future
for some news about the present

which of course is useless     Even I know that     Mean-
while, Agnes upstairs plays with Grace—
the little neighbor girl—not the idea of unmerited
forgiveness in light      The two of them make up
words to no music or to My Fictions
and The Saddest Landscape

Sometimes it’s hard to say which,
no matter how hard I pretend to listen
I am no expert at thunder and lightning
I am no expert at eggbirds and ghost-
typing the air to remember a song

Today a rainstorm caught me up
The rain came down, and it still comes down
The rain comes down is all I know

about how sometimes life finds me stupid on the porch
with a couple of empty beer bottles,
humming and waiting for god knows what, some
warm weather to calm me, a few minor thoughts
All these days, reasons end somewhere

The water still rolls with an owl in its blood
We reverberate through it very softly

Copyright © 2014 by Matt Hart. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on January 31, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2014 by Matt Hart. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on January 31, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Matt Hart

by this poet

poem
nothing and nothing
gets by you, but I get
so distracted
that my notice
has been put on notice
for birds and for traffic
For instance,
the constant
slap of the sound
of waves
against gutters
gets by me
Grass stain on my hands
from falling down
at the hospital
gets by me     Physics
Sequined dresses
The Olympics
poem
It's true that two hummingbirds singing
in exactly the same pitch
can shatter the blackest of mountains.
But it's also true that the missiles
in those mountains can shatter
a hummingbird to pieces of hummingbird.
The end. But this curled mess of black
yarn, this series of concrete barrier
entanglements, means
poem
I had a girl, I named her soap.
I had a soap, I named her cat.
One day I played the accordion on paper,
and it sounded like a birth certificate
drifting into the sun, a disintegration station
in a vast bewildered wilderness—
which sounds like a slide whistle at first
but later like the back porch flytrap I named