lisa fay coutley

On the Anniversary of a Defunct Engagement, Rain Bucket

Tarp-lines tauten as the birches
they're tied to lean. If I kept
a closer watch over the dashes curving
inside the bucket's circumference

and dipping under the waterline,
I'd have a measure of the year:
droughts and gales scratched
deep into the plastic with steel nails.

Without the bucket, the rain

blown down from the branches

would be no different than wind

without weathervane, but instead
it lingers like a phone call

I've only made in my mind, point

and counterpoint downpour

to downpour sitting under the tarps,

storms sounding like more than they are,

drops pocking the water’s algae skin.
Sweep the puddles from the deck.
Let her voice be the soft earth

where I empty the bucket,

the darkened soil where worms turn
to dig their way back down.

Box Kite

Hold on. Adjust to the south gusting wind

by turning your back. Let the thunder clouds

flash off the coast, the air sparking and now

and then: a lull, when the kite dips and bends

back toward you, string loosening in your hand.

A breeze is never finished, but will blow

between gales until it seems the waves slow

and the shore moves, the sky tied to the sand.

mark brewin