Monsoon

Granny said the heavens would open at five

so I stayed outside, waiting for angels:
fixing my eyes on the grey vault of sky,
burning inside with the strangeness.

The heavens bulged darker and darker.
The air grew too solid to breathe –

and the angels fell like watery swords;
with shining blades they pierced my skin.
Rivers of angels inside my head,

washing me out, washing something else in.