Said: In the Rain

Wide in the hills he came to unearth the golden tablets.

You put all this together one afternoon walking home in rain.

Last night, after playing Satie you briefly believed

the back of the mind was the only religion that mattered.

Perturbed, you never wanted words graven in fire,

but wished to be found there, buried in the hill-dirt,

in the rain, a follower of a religion of water,

and why not?

Why not be an acolyte of the twisting ribbon of river?

What else floods its way from great rock to oblivion?

In a night divided into Satie and self-evidence,

why not the religion of what always seeps back to itself?

Why not a religion of water in a time of great fires?

You fear you may drown, but your birth in it implies otherwise.

Not that it is impossible to drown, but that

this whole time you have been drowning.