It is raining again, the way rain falls as though it can't or won't stop raining. The cold enters through your heels from the floor and works its way up your thighs and elbows until it burrows into the spine, the heart. You've spent nearly a lifetime trying to understand this helpless and fickle human nature, how it desires what glistens with significance in more languages than you could master. And who were your first teachers? Who told you that books could give us the answers? Even the hero's mother kept telling him the story of moths who'd batter themselves against lantern light, and still not learn the lesson— The way the bound body forces itself to turn and face the volley from a firing squad instead of surrendering without protest to oblivion.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.