Rain of Terror

The rain still comes,
lawns cough up drowning earth worms a foot long,
who manage to flop-crawl their way
to the sidewalk
and are brutalized for their survival instinct
by sparrow beaks,
or sectioned into worm ravioli
by gleeful bicycle tires.
Flowers sag with wet autumn pollen,
and stoic trees stand for the beating
of a million lash strokes, their once lavish flesh
ruptured into
asymmetrical pieces of a long life,
that die with the worms
in wet,damp,muck.

Here in the half light world
of day
we could build an ark,
or perform a sacrifice.
Thoughts of perverse cabin fever couplings flash with each
thunderclap
and we understand madness for a second.

Strange,
that at least twice a day
we find ourselves drawn, beguiled,
to the window,
and we awake staring at the torrent, gazing slack-jawed and saucer eyed,
the steady undercurrent like a siren calls to our primitive brain,
something back there senses danger,
senses cannibalism,
senses a bad hunt,
and we pace the house not knowing why.
We want to kill something
just in case
it never ends.