This place is petrified in its relative draught.
The eros of the jungle delivers torrents of rain
With the certainty of a gnomon's adhesion
To its primative grounding, and yet
There are no cars in the jungle.

There are plants, I suppose, men and beasts,
Whose needs for such hydration are great;
And yet these have all been removed from the jungle,
Transplanted to here, everything but the torrents themselves,

Which apparently feel obligated to pester us
By their own gnomon, with drizzles and trickles,
To fool us with the visitation of the flood waters from Genesis
On the rare occasion, but not to grant us

And as it is, when the rains arrive
And I am coming home from work,
Plowing my car through the madness
Of God's stochastic outbursts
Windshield-wipers rocking sexually,
Four-way directionals pulsing
To warn of a cautious driver slowly willing,
And I am tortured by my seat and wheel,
Forced to lean forward, out from weeping windows,
I am granted my singular relief as I cross
Beneath a highway overpass.

That driving in the rain is so traumatic for me
Wracks my shameful soul;

How can this place really be so still?
It is shocked stiff by irregularity.

It is petrified; God does not champion it
Any longer

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