Your face is all over those tea cups and
wine glasses and
acrid, honey laughter
Your Indian face and name
that I can write no more like
Indian rains and lightning
Your face is all over households that
hold their breath
in a silent prayer of nonsense,
chanting some litany or
for your return,
walking along the bluegrass
of Southern Avenue
as the rains tumble and fall,
as the rains and
your face and
the rains are all over the place