The First Rain

 The first rain reminds me
Of the rising summer dust.

The rain doesn't remember the rain of yesteryear.

A year is a trained beast with no memories.

Soon you will again wear your harnesses,
Beautiful and embroidered, to hold
Sheer stockings: you
Mare and harnesser in one body.


The white panic of soft flesh
In the panic of a sudden vision
Of ancient saints.

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