Tadpoles

Quiet after the rain
I think of my tadpoles at night
Their tiny clenched legs, and I want them to open,
And be open.
Like a hand feeling the rain falling, I am looking
For nothing. Only the moonlight of wide open eyes in close,
I would be radiant as gas, the thunk
And ripples, the quiet of a heavy yellow bucket.
I would like the rain to fall on my eyes, wide open and staring as
rain falls
On countless moons, falling in a snowdome
Of gravity. That would be rain, pure and multiplying
In deep space, collecting in buckets.
I have a craving for rain, for the outpouring rain-language,
For the open throats of the frogs, discrete fellows, inside-out and
Stomaching atmosphere, hopeless and
Boneless in everything but the full bellowing monsoon,
Calling up the swamp, they open their chests like frog-boned
galleons.
I think of the covers of paperback science fiction,
The space ships in pink light,
The space ships rudimentary and eccentric,
Like something whimsical, romantic, cast out of ourselves
For safe-keeping, wandering in a far-off universe,
While on Earth it rains between towers,
And the window cleaners
Smoke in helmets.