Air

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The sky is falling on my head today.
Thrice rain-beset by storms, my brow is kissed
precipitantly as I wend my way
to work. The atmosphere is filled with mist,
the air is saturated, white as smoke
and cool as fog, wet as geyser steam.
The sky’s upheld on limbs of elm and oak
and heaven makes the sidewalks puddle-gleam.

As if the tears of God were atomized,
and now the holy finger is depressed,
we’ve tiny drops of water everywhere.
Miraculous of course but I’m surprised
the most to recognize, almost distressed,
that no one else appears to like this air.

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