night like a bruise
goes away again
now the change from frost
to a great rain
we bury her
in her fine clothes
rain doting on the ice
I leave my change with a blind man
testing the rain
everywhere a wing
and nobody minding it but me
weary and high
Can you believe
how many songs have been committed to stone
& none to the water that wears it down?
How many lines get lifted from the surf–
& none from the living ocean?
I was the dead girl who lay in the coffin
with her corona of hair cut short.
I wasn’t listening to that stranger
whose hands held their fire,
whose teeth trapped dust.
But when the women one
by one stood up to testify
I heard the first rumor of rain.
It was as if I’d awakened precipitously
in the night, forehead filled
with mist & the dreams
a sleeping rain
my mouth still
after dining and talking
deer come in the night
where should I be
if not in my mind
sore lovers play at harm
a horse of no stomach
cold as rain talking all afternoon
they try a poor thin supper
sad rainy night—
the surgeon hands us
a cut-up cake
rain turned into jade
cunning as a way of raising things
but I begin to be weary
of having spoil
the land in pieces
would be a busy bed
a falcon just dead
it and the rain raw as parted friends
melancholy rain
like a letter from a cave
what is the cat seeing at night
she holds up her head
this break in the rain
not in any forecast
heart raining still
like a sot
rainy day—
a rough reed touching
all the wind