Cold coffee. In the wintertime he would've

Grimaced and spat it out. Yet now in June,

The middle of the month with a dark sky

Lowering around his house, with flicks of lightning,

Nicking the horizon across the wide valley, he

Picks up his half-forgotten cup and the dregs

Are cool and savory. He smiles. The first raindrops

Go plop, plop on the roof of his room. He closes

His eyes. The naked goddess whose perfume

So teases him is plucking the harp she clasps

Between her knees. And the thunder tolls.