Strange Rain

When I wake up,

the ground below my window

is wet.

The road outside my gate

lies in startled dismay.

The gurgling sewage underground

spews sloth,

and muddy puddles

cry foul.

The clouds above sulk

and stretch their swollen bodies,

only to grumble a low threat

and crawl back into

a sultry slumber.

The Custodian of Secrets

The custodian of secrets

has some secrets of her own, too.

When I dip a finger

down her throat,

I find

a bolus of semi realities.

A pastiche of my tales.

I sit in tea parties with her,

thin lipped and squeamish,

as she sinks her teeth

into the sugary crust

of a new saga.