It's raining Russian miracle tales
during these nights embroidered with mold,
when we taste each other
like dry wine.
And we read, because the world
is an enormous shopping list,
one hundred stories and one hundred
woven nights, and a sunset,
hanging in the rain like an outlaw.
Our night, our drenched
night, and you
undress the horizon and hang
its socks to dry on a radiator,
so that we could hear how
it's raining Russian miracle tales
over the fields and roofs and how
death comes off the rain drops
when you scratch them really hard.