The Sky Is Clear, But It's Raining

Under the trees, where everything
Is still possible in prescribed doses:
Hundreds of accordion-like units
Without edges. But there is no unwinding

Of minutes to stay the execution
Of a rain-shot weekend in early
Beach weather, no elixir
To revive the amputated flower

Still kicking on its ghost-stem
In a bowl of water, no direction
In which to steer
The hapless, puzzled out-of-towner

Other than straight ahead,
To the sheer drop-off
Where his guidebook gutters
Or deposits him, addressless,

In thin air.