It seemed to him
his natural condition was the rain:
his marrow - runnels separating,
pooling, to disperse again,
the drops distinct as piano notes,
dense as grapes when massed
for wine, congealing in a dark,
translucent necklace of desire.
It seemed to him
his substance melted into lonely
formlessness, and that his senses
must dissolve, abandon hope
and shape, and find themselves
submerged in flux, and meditative
well, and spate, and seek the night,
when rain and wine
could share his melancholy state.
In this way, he distilled a sorrow
too deep to relate.
Rain and Wine
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103042000390
Свидетельство о публикации №103042000390
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