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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