Rain at last. Day sinking like a ship
into the boom and patter.
Daisies, daylilies, spattered
and dripping, cars plowing a scrim
of water. I’m grateful the sky’s
coming around, a predictable hymn
of cycles. Like the moon and stars
moored to the end
of our dock, circling my eyes. In Vegas,
the old women in gold sandals
twirl the bars of cherries,
grapes, bananas. What later do they
say was predictable—
loss or gain? What prescience
claim? The radiation arm moves
back and forth over me. Past that,
stars on the ceiling,
what will come out when rain ends,
someone’s idea of peace. I’m lying
low, it’s raining out. Periods
are tattooed on my stomach, I’ve been
mapped for return and return
with such patient concern.