Last night
tossed in
my bed
the sound of the rain turned me
around,
a leaf
in a dried gully
from side to
side,
the sound of the rain took me
apart, opened to what is it?
breath caught in memory of
a deep sweetness
that sound
unceasing
delicate, the wetness running
through my body
It might be nighttime
in a forest hut,
the rain constant
in little rivulets
splashing,
at times uncertain —
safe in each other's arms,
the rain sheltering
us a depth opening
bottomless to a terrible sweetness,
the small rain
shaking us in our bed
(the terror)
whispering
End of a season,
wind from the west
new york, 1982