dispatch #6-october in savannah

The weather like a familiar lover,
rain that never falls on you.
Trees wrapped in the embraces of moss,
their limbs like old men remembering dance.
The air tastes of salt and iron.
You walk slow through the ache of it.

Somewhere a bell keeps time for the dead.
Somewhere the sea whispers of debt.
You think the world could forgive itself
if only it rained a little harder.