Miss Joy's gone south
to warm her private bones
and find a standard rain
with three or seven variations
the locals put their objects out
the ones from dreams: a serious and grimy
thimble, a smiling piggybank,
a yellow teacup with a Chinese crack
to catch a few big drops that smell like sky
they wait inside the doorway of a turquoise house
or a pink house that's also lavender and yellow
smoking cigarettes and singing just a little
if someone starts a tune, something also
in the memory of weeds, tall and country-awkward
along with a jealous breeze, two thousand crows
a massive afternoon, the garden breathing
heavily and slowly, like a gangster long retired
in the midst, a bird upon a pole
with a tune that's broken but useable and a black little eye