The rainmakers have undeniably taken an extended holiday this summer, and the sparkling fountain surrounded by grapevine-shaded tables tucked behind Firehook Bakery offers a welcome retreat from hot city sidewalks.
Drops
in rain language
have not yet begun to stutter
in the cloud throat.
The thunder mouth is toothless
and lighting has not yet flicked
the spotlights on in the pupil
of the eye.
Until the stoves are lit,
sleeves will be rolled up on the arms of the sun,
another demonstration will erupt
in the clandestine curves of the girl
who in a Trieste piazza has wet
her lips with wine
and the summer will send gangsters
to repulse autumn’s gunmen
from the border of its waves.
—Ronny Someck
Ann and Saul