Sunday, April 14, 2013


After the long drought,
Then storms of flowers,

To hear the rain pouring
Over the rungs of the ladder

That's propped against
The gates of paradise

And, quite accidentally, leaning
So hard it tilts the local moon

On her back, is to know
The exact moment when desire

For what might yet be
Attained balances

Against cloudy superstitions
That to ascend we fall

And not to ascend
We fall. I want

To have that death
Grip on the rails

That lashing rain
Cannot make slip.

I want to get to
The next rung.

The moon, as such, would be
Unfortunate to reach

In vain, but when
Light finally wanes, those gates

In the starry rain,
Diminishing, might leave

Me. I want to know exactly
What remains just then.

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