Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Small Rain

It was, I think, our fourth
the shut house swept
& lanterned. Light escaping

through the leaves, the hinges, our
laced fingers
the crushed sweet briar
which smells of apples

Turning, returning
on my spinstered bed
we slipped the old

you with your wrists of oak
& the winter spring
bound in its narrow culverts
poured out, & that

continual rain
drenching the juniper, the cloud
grass, the sorrel &
our joined & disbelieving mouths.

(one of the many long ago poems published in kayak)


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