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,
the pebbles weep sparkles.
it seems, impossibly,
they are glad to cry.
to weep is to live.
especially in a trench
that gnawed the world away,
leaving only outcast remnants.
to weep is to live.
especially for stones
impaled on the fork of a gulch,
morsels for an endless desert.
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