Poem: Pale Rain

Pale Rain

 

they wait like skulls

for liquid flesh, 

but the pale rain offers only 

a faint hope.

 

when lean droplets

scatter over their mica,

it seems they weep sparkles;

it seems, though impossible,

that they are glad to cry.

 

to weep is to live,

especially in a trench

that gnawed your world down,

leaving only outcasts,

and heavy specters.

 

to weep is to live,

especially for worn out stones,

impaled on the fork of a gulch,

morsels for the desert.

 

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