Rain III: A Love Supreme, Psalm
The swelling saxophone warms my car’s
Cockpit, makes the little constellation
Of droplets that coats my windshield sparkle
A bit more, refracting traffic lights’ reds
And streetlights’ yellows, a scintillation
Of dew bedecking the befogged pane
Like twinkling Christmas lights seen hazy,
Lazy-strewn by a happy hand.
There’s something perfect about jazz
In the warmth of the car as you drive
Home by night in a gentle rain. Its wist
-fulness imbues existence (for a few
Moments) with just the proper tenor
Of melancholy longing. I become
So absorbed in Coltrane’s and Ellington’s
Sentimental Mood that I drive past
My own intersection, not realizing
My street is my street, somehow seeing
These sky-washed asphalt flats
As if from an utterly new man’s eyes.
Taking a detour home, I reckon with
Rain as supreme condescension,
Heaven coming on down
To cover this earth in a purgative power
Which will wipe away the grime
Of time, draw out a whiff of that dear freshness,
A scent, to be man-masked by diluting devices
No more. Car door closed, I’m wrapped
In a wondrous birthwet night
Whose distant, slick tire tracks whisper
Rhythm and news: Heaven will not drown
That which he wishes to water,
To wash clean.
Ian Heisler teaches 9th grade classics, U.S. history, and poetry in Phoenix while trying to become a better host of convivial community. His poetry appears in Salt and Iron Magazine. He likes writing Letterboxd movie reviews pretentiously, dancing Ceili eagerly, and hosting festal parties joyfully.
