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Rain in the Night



eyes not open

release the half-forgotten songs,

the directions to places you don't wish to return to,

the news of the day in Cleveland, or Ulan Bator,

the names of the vice presidents under

Rutherford Hayes. Let him go,

lord, back to Ohio to his ornate crypt.

A memory of poetry, a line in someone else's

meter. A Bo Diddley beat.

You wake to the sounds of rain,

a taste of lightning.

Be still.

Close your eyes & yet remain awake.

This is when Kafka

was visited by a gigantic insect.

This is when the closet called

for the poet & she answered.

Find enough momentum to rise?

To fumble a light

tumble from the bed into dark.

Or wait this out.

Might be a three day rain.

The trees sigh at the wind.

Sluice and spatter in the gutters.

That thrum could be rain, could be

the echo of your pulse.

Be glad you are not

an eyeless wriggle

in the old dirt of recollection

afraid it’s going to drown.


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