Dangles and Spangles

Hardly a crystalline dawn,
the rain is critiquing winter
in terms a child would enjoy. 

You sometimes act posthumous,
cleaning the cat box or sifting
black oil seed for chickadees.

You web the available space
with senses I’ve never sprouted
but envy for their precision.

Today we’re supposed to stand
by the highway, bearing witness
with signs promoting peace but 

enraging drivers who lust
for a nuclear apocalypse
to wholesale them to their god. 

The rain seems sure of itself.
Its dangles and spangles brim.
Our local brook will erupt

into basements in the flood plain
where dogs will try to bark it back
between its leathery banks. 

The voice of the rain reiterates
familiar phrases rather
than dredge original syntax  

from thick old comforts of cloud.
Such hostile luxury forbids
our casual participation.

Even you with your angles
arranged to accommodate
must retract your tentacles.

Let’s toast some toast and pretend
this is the apotheosis
for which plain landscapes prepare.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.