petrichor raze i can't understand a thing anyone's saying tonight. not the woman in hospital scrubs shrouded by a brown cardigan, shouting into the phone she holds in front of her face. not the man talking to himself on a two-wheeler. not the birds busy crooning and caterwauling. but i can feel the air bloom around me before the sky breaks open and grieves for all it stands to lose. a capsized garbage pail lid gathers rain. what it can't catch leaves slapdash footprints on patio stones and irrigates the fleece inherited by every upright animal combing through self-made catacombs in search of home. 220608 what's it to you? who go blather from