Short storms make the best rainbows— twenty minutes of inky wet, and then,
on the rinsed atmosphere's curved edge, struck by the re-emergent sun
in impermanent and glorious coinage, mint-fresh from infra-violet to ultra-red,
gigantic, ethereal, rooted in the sea
seen through it, dying a bell-buoy green,
it has appeared. And when it fades, today, it leaves behind on the bay's flat glaze
a strange confetti of itself, bright dots of pure, rekindled color, neon-clear.
What are we seeing? Lobster-pot markers,
speckling the brine with polychrome.