I
lie nude in the rain,
turning
face down
towards
the patience of earth.
Clouds
breathe right next to me.
Together,
we are moisture sometimes in waiting.
Around
me, burst and pour give me perspective.
This
water, carving to the ground, traces me.
Raindrops,
like ants,
track
a gravity path towards earthbound.
This
is our intimate meeting,
like
paper and ink at print.
I
meet rain at wet in this way.
My
hair is filled with clear liquid chlorophyll.
Each
drop crossing me is making the spawning run.
Wind
gathers me up
with
many cool hands in a light massage.
Puddles
that stare at the sky
are
queuing into little theaters of wait.
Pools
of where I-quick flood-into-words
are
stark yet spilling out of me
into
words that lay bare,
in
the liquidity that per chance
could
also, easily be yours . . .
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