It's Raining Inside James Schuyler

Lee Upton

Not tearing the umbrellas inside out

not even blowing them side to side

just getting wetness wetter

and then the rain dwindles

but the sun has a shimmer（微光）

like it's missing the rain

and every once in a while

the trees in the park let down

a drenching（势头）

like they have to admit:

Oh I almost forgot about the rain.

So many Aprils.

And then the rain is back

in strings

like hair from a horse's tail.

Oh good. Weather everywhere.

Inescapable weather.

Even in everybody's

buttonholes: weather.

And someone has put an umbrella over

Gertrude Stein

in Bryant Park

where she squats

like a toad.

Blossoms drift past and cigarette

ash in the rain

and somewhere in a pond

koi swirl against koi like

they're rehearsing

to be a kimono（和服）.

The koi look

like they've been scrubbed

by a brick

which is why I won't leave

this little metal table

with its legs

modeled on insects

among insects.

And now it's raining

in the sunlight.

And the afternoon has a new

nip in it.

Chill April.

Rain lands on my neck

and slips further,

little geraniums（天竺葵） of rain.

That's all right.

Long ago a rain drop

fell from a leaky ceiling

into my eye

and I lived for that.

And then walking not slow

there is my friend

decades since we've seen each other

and he knows me instantly.

The same raincoat, he says.