I wake up with the dawn. It starts to rain

I wake up with the dawn. It starts to rain
on Bayou Des Allemands, the muddy river
divides the land. A north-northwestern wind
exhales across the cypress trees. My eyes
are open to the day, she opens the door
into the bedroom, walks across and turns

the light off. How her elbow writes in turns
as she changes her posture, how the rain
falls slowly. If you open up the door
the pressure changes inside, by the river
the land is higher. I thought that her eyes
were grey in the old pictures, how the wind

had thrown her hair across her neck, the wind
that's blowing in the gulf right now. I turn
and toss in bed alone, I wipe my eyes
into my fists. When I wake up, a rain
will fall about the earth, the curving river
moves like a script of mud. I close the door

and light into her, they can hear the door
slam down the hall. Outside the swirling winds
are whistling between the houses, rivers
move with a force like this, assault their turns
with a fantastic will. Organized rains
or grammars of low clouds, within her eyes

I am no more, the nothing of her eyes
absolves me of my sin. I slam the door
and celebrate our privacy, brief rain
provides percussion for our love. The winds
affect the land, the land itself returns
the affection in hills and valleys, rivers,

lakes and streams. The Mississippi River
ought not be so reined, the wandering eyes
of storms have known the delta's bends and turns
intensely. Maybe her sweet eyes are doors
to her soul, are the way that the swift wind
has carried me. Outside, the pouring rain

falls thick in sheets, the wind pushes the door
into the house. My eyes find that the river
is turning the green tree-leaves in the rain.