…

This rain before
it rains again and
rains so much you
say it isn’t so.
Because it rains
only when you care
to look, and take
a breath. It’s the
rain you love. This rain
becomes the rain,
designated
rain, fortuitous
rain. It shades
everything with its
particular gloss. Its
wish is only the
rain. Some low-level
rain which thinks
it is all that is.

…

For years, you’ve
come back to this place
not a physical place
but a type of feeling.
Quietude of investigation
(you are quite proud
of the instinct) yet
when all is said and
done a marsh
still stands with ducks
in it, you still find
incidental garbage
in the woods.

…

Half the time you’re
working, and half
you’re not.
Down the road is
a coffee shop so
perfect it’s annoying.
Closure is divine
(or so they say).
The smudge of gray
skies, an archetype
whose passing train
shakes the bed.
To me, it’s unseen,
a belief in named
things, this field,
a horse, dirt
road, secluded lake.
Ache of past contours,
boundary that spirals
on from image to
image.