Rubs, licks, brushes, and strokes
are raining upon this forest, and I am drenched.
Stalks unbend, and leaves
are blowing the long tones of wind
in the density of their own growth.
One cannot speak about rain without alluding to Verlaine
and hundreds of others, every word
gives birth to a thesis.
In the rain everything repeats itself, when
it's raining you can hear a hundred
objects, stories of the hearth's border and bureau top
at the end of which they find each other