Sonny Rainshine Poems

What day were you born?
I was not born.
...

So, it’s just a game.
...

They roost upon the railing, stentorian.
Laser-eyed sentries scanning the vista,
they will guard the nest on the roof
‘til the last hatchling gets its wings.
...

Where is the fear in your face?
Is it ensconced in the crease
beneath your right eye, or in that trace
of blue in the Matisse
...

We argue at the cottage gate
like the cluster of conifers beside us
pointing all winter to the sky, to the sun,
as if in condemnation:
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Wild violets: blue
and white ribbons trim the creek.
a lacy brocade.
...

my official report,
but I can say that the
quiet respite I describe right now
is not the norm
...

Night thrusts back the light.
...

The disintegrating steps of the ruins
at Chichen Itza lay scorched in the sun.
The guide told us that for years the pyramid
...

A sudden spring cloudburst:
...