Paul Hostovsky

They had nothing in common but the weather
but of the weather he made
spectacular conversation
and voluptuous
with which to bind her
to his heart
building his fortune on the chance
of precipitation
and love was his fortune and he built it
out of rain
and maybe she listened the way a hand listens
for the rain
and maybe the smell of it the hint of it
was like a smile in his loins
and the air so thick with the promise of it
he had only to open his mouth and love
was on his tongue
and fluent already in a thousand
dialects of rain
like a thousand ways of making love to her
in a thousand different places
for a thousand years to come
though they had nothing in common
but the weather
which was unseasonably chilly
and dry that day
it was a dry cold nondescript day