Well, it is raining, and the raindrops make br Furtive areolas in the puddles of muddy bellies, br And their mists are like nebulous shrouds, br And unfertilized thoughts of maidens dreaming of br Weddings and fine bachelors in their highest high towers- br And I am warm, as down in the valley the safe cabins br Huddle against their pines like satisfied lovers, br And I read my book once more the way a captain checks br Over his ship preparing for embarkation, br For I will be published mutely and celebrate with my dogs br In the consolatory monsoons of this lush season; br For it is what I can hope for, and my smiling mother’s eyes, br And the way the doors lay sometimes half open letting br In the glows; but I cannot love her anymore, when my br Words grow tangled about my mind like weeds and skeins br Of my dead aunt’s yarn the kittens have playfully disemboweled, br For on the swings so far away she is moving in her arcs br As the policemen patrol her, and the apex where her legs grow br Up together and into the seat of a tall ladder placed below br Her window where the work is finished and she leans outwards, br Her eyes so maple and October, and she sighs never thinking br How the rain touches me, as if the kisses from cold little children, br Never once desiring her match-head, and the humming bloom br Of a single kiss....