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.