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.