Then the rain fell, as it does,

To demarcate the beginning of Act IV scene I,


Or to say that what you feel is like the rain,

A thousand numb nerves,


A body without sensation.

Rain strays into the marrow and bogs,


Into clay and brine, saps

The gaunt light friction rubs up.


As it does, unlatched,

The rain swings open


And the space between rain

Is neither constant nor chaotic,


And the little arithmetic

You bring to the problem


Cannot predict where to stand

Or even where you stand.


Eventually, rain-freighted,

As if by a thousand favors


You will never repay,

You become the rain's interior,


A root at its threshold,

A cistern's echo.



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