right. the title makes no sense.

The Rainmaker's Unapology

there was no beginning, no one to
give us metaphors:

the eye of god was
pried out from the forest,
and while it rolled inward -
converged upon itself -
we levelled the unhappy world.

it was never our emprise;
we are merely the executioner's bribe.

born of spring,
we still do not impress and
we do not see the difference between
prelapsarian and postdiluvian -
the rainmaker still trespasses along the desert's edge;

and if it were possible
for the hurricane to rage delicately
then maybe his porcelain mask
would not suffer so,
but the saltant sea will not be contained,
and the remains of our parody
cannot be bought by fire.

the man has a temper like a baby
waiting to be indulged -
("I do not know the way to heaven,
only the tartarean sickness
of being alive.")
death does not become him.
it is too much like a forest flooded with life.

we do not look him in the eye.

there will be no end,

only dirtied salt to mark the passing of too many leaves,
still green with slaughter.