Poezja

Dances for me, lightly
Does the rain's bright lightning
With gracefully-laid steps,
And hammered deep, bass frets.

Raindrops wake me — they need me,
Nestled in a sharp, brown field
On dusty earth — my best
Cause and cure of friction.

The rain listens, and when I have
No one to impound upon, saves
Me, fills my life with irony,
And simply, pounds brick burgundy,

It is falling as a current, and
My gutters are the throat it courses.
It forces its voice, a cough at first,
Then showers a harmonized chorus.

The rain. 'Tis most like your tears — It occurs
Along cries, long laughter, lettered pressure,
Lone pain, and lost, alien memory.
So it pours, straying ever-readily.

Most of all, the hard-pouring rain imposes
Onto me the kind, soft, and precise feeling
That is lingering — that mostly, gratefully,
To you do I tightly, and lovingly cling.