The days it rains here
Water flooding the streets
Swirling with mud and branches
In the creeks.
I begin to travel to

That crude shack, those do it
Yourself benched nailed together from
Discarded boards, snub glasses,
Scratched and soiled, filled to the brim
With steaming milky tea,
Our unshaven faces, our hair wet
And slicked back like gangsters
Strong cigarette smoke from
Your finger tips, you hands
Slashing the air, in order to make
Me see the other dimensions,
The fourth very least.
Brother, why have you
Given up on me?
I now see
This hidden dimension
Of yours.
It is the track on which
Pain rides memory’s trains
On days it rains.