I want to tell you about the dim rain days.
When the rain streams in and the girls that love me
can’t work fast enough to keep it from flowing over the threshold
and the shadows’ wishes for bodies come true.
About the rain days that give men and vegetation life.
The dead one ceases to be dead if only the rain fills her hearing.
Like unfamiliar boots at the bedside, like water
to the water bucket, so is the rain to the corpse.
I want to talk about the long dim endless rain days
when I walk in the circles intended for me, from kitchen
to foyer into the bedroom and from there to the living room
out into the hall on the other side to the kitchen while the girls battle the rain
outside the door and the shadows get their wishes fulfilled.
The dead one ceases to be lonely and the heavy scent of the trees
is borne in through the open window if these days last into summer
which in fact happens often.
Tell you about the sloshing rain days with the writhing stream
that never stops. Like a childhood that, unresentful and happy,
cuts its ties with the course of nature.
The embossed shadows and air that tastes like the spirit of a sleeping dog
to which the girls’ faraway splashing adds a whole lot of exuberance.
Long and dim and soft and tired rain days.