My folder of poems
labeled "weather" holds 
no clues as to whether
or not there’ll be any 

weather to count on, say, 
a hard rain like "little nails," or
that deluge "plunging radiant"

now that we’ve plunged into war
and wars don’t stop like rain stops

like that last slow drizzle
onto the old tin bathroom vent

sweet hint of growth
in the soft wet drift north

fire or ice, fire or ice

are you breathing, are you lucky enough
to be breathing