let the petrichor grow sour.
let them taste the bitter contrails,
and maybe they will learn:

that which is not cultivated
does not bloom;
that which is neglected
turns to poison.

this time the debris refuses
to be boiled away, the rain
lingering and spoiling
into condensation
(and condescension
follows soon after).

dawn is the time for their
chartreuse shadows to emerge,
holophrastic and vulgar,
eager to see the world in ruins.
this pill has a familiar name:

some call it death
and it is easy to swallow.

others call it father
and it sticks in the throat.

the afternoon waits for them,
wastes time so they won't notice
the frost that has frozen every door shut.
dusk sees to this permanency.

the rain does not last forever.
(its violence lasts longer.)