The most important men in
My life have listened to
Rain, they have recited in
Dry tones, the electric-tinged
Singe of the drops, the thunder
Grass scent, they have wondered at
Whole horizons made bright as if
Just before the creation of
Color, of pink and of scarlet
Sunlight transformed into cobalt
Blue, these men born as if
Poured into loose-limbed bodies
Have spoken with a certain
Curling brown leaf sadness
Their eyes turned toward
Corners and into distances,
The skin on their faces
Creased deeply as if into
Crevices cut across some
Ancient earth, the dirt there
To be planted and so furrowed
Down and then over, needlessly
Over and over by blades flashing
Silver like pain, the men
To whom I have listened
Do not as a rule cry
But the tones in their voices
Lower as if on signal as
They lean toward the first
Sounds of rain.