Monday, August 29, 2016

The Rain by Robert Creeley


The Rain

All night the sound had   
come back again, 
and again falls 
this quiet, persistent rain. 

What am I to myself 
that must be remembered,   
insisted upon 
so often? Is it 

that never the ease,   
even the hardness,   
of rain falling 
will have for me 

something other than this,   
something not so insistent— 
am I to be locked in this 
final uneasiness. 

Love, if you love me,   
lie next to me. 
Be for me, like rain,   
the getting out 

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- 
lust of intentional indifference. 
Be wet 
with a decent happiness.

 

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