The kitchen pane: glass canvas,
splashed at from stirred rain.
Streaming trails, declarations
to make Pollock proud.

It forms fast and angular,
with lambent silver
veins - as if the moon had leant
and wept it's burden.

(There was no Apocalypse;
just drips, and drips, and
wordless acts devoid of wrath).

I watch this window-jazz, rapt
to see sky’s next notes,
and try to show you clear things,
with mere sliding signs.

Feb, 2007