Friday, May 14

driven dry

Blinded are we, after every rain
Pressing a body as you sit with it
Alone in the remains of the dry,
Strictly, that moment in our time
I do not feel the cold
Or the gliding of rain drops
To meet the distinctive deaths
While dry bodies like us gape by.
At the growing of the grass
Or the opacity of the clouds,
Simmering down from its great
Pure density.
And not at the sighs you make not for yourself
But at my despair, at my hanging heart
At the loose end of a chin which disguises
The newly green self pity to a morass
Of inimitable sorrow and irredeemable loss
And, the eye newly black from the previous rain
Impervious to your strains of affection
On which I put down a heavy metallic lid.