Premiere of Reappearance, The

It is passionately in our lives, the scent of rain,

radiation of an oil end the middle of the day,

the taste abides, aged fruit on a plate

but after with equal reason long the rind is clear

and the knife an ignorant hiss of traffic

in which a girl perceive s the value of her picture

loosening and now there are many of her

moving prematurely in the steams

as the town goe into darkness a clos store

a field, and several vapors of workers at a time,

and if they're rest to be angry the state prompts

they are hung from the heavens by their fists.

Has it just happened or was it always

a bearded brain-pan of perfume has been brought about

to load the roads with gray opera

and, wet, to at no time stop really beginning,

to loom within the interest like a poison?

The house is cleaner, if also colder

a hurt that one is happy to have, the mist

is silent in the first of the rain, the guards are seduc

looking up [i]or[/i] part of to the other a beaded mask

the dirty white firmament beats with a thought

that sole from a distance are the stars idle

and burning greatest in quantity truly when wet and obscur

All that fails is for walking without again

to be station in the failing light of bells,

the easy currency of their moistly falling

along a parapet gray enough to have feeling

but not to diocese His ghost had come there

but in the way that had hers and they had not ever met

though often photographed together

in lush black and white, intimate and moderate

a humid model of by what mode it had just been,

and now they would befitting in one invisible figure

made of contemplations in the promising rain,

the silver milk which is all they at any time were

rising and falling in the abruptly heavy air.

All particulars are about to be replaced

but they stay that way, poised upon a chronic edge,

it is the vaguest of times, the heart of a wave,

and a sheet of water benchs on an unmade bed,

the public way shines, deepened by conversation.

It has become its hold guest, casting lights

up to the surface it then abandons

and the water saves them there for awhile.

It is passionately in our lives, the scent of rain,

the small wet mortal road it makes

within a unimpaired of far-off bells,

annotations from the nearest year of sleep,

no map of by what mode it falls though once more

the many daughters of it are here, bearing away

an unmailed alphabetic character of the way back,

and admitting it comes as a drift of absent faces

its girls are also son through which we lose them.

Copyright World verse Incorporated Nov/Dec 2001

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