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Often I make mistakes in parsing your precipitation

All we’ve had to work with lately
are these gray days like walls

mazing our emotions
When it rains I question my faith
in punctuation—nothing in this world

is so elaborate as this breath
curling through this still house
so used to abruptness

I wish that rain went right through me
and I felt right enough to kiss

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Posted by Lewis LaCook at 11:59 am | Postmodern Poetry | Permalink

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