Without Pressure, without Darkness

​Without pressure, without darkness,
Sliding out of the porte cochere,
Without the mountains of foolishness
But the tingling, stinging air,

(The spider sits at the outdoor cafe,
Holding his slick magazine,
He’s got a pencil cigar in his mouth
And his hair is slicked back with brilliantine,

But) the raindrops are still dripping
After the storm, you’re shivering, but
The battered grass between the road
And the drainage trench, deeply cut

In the soil, is bright, and then
A lenticular cloud glows over the hill,
You know, sometimes it’s too good to be true
And it’s true, and a trout fights up the spill.