How long can it rain when there has been no rain—

what is want, what is exactitude—when is an ending

a beginning. There is never any
snow in winter, never rain—always nature

concluding—giving you stars when you forgot stars,

giving you abundance. When you leave you let
the light in. When you leave for one reason or another—

a sudden car in liminal space—a lost liturgy to

immovable climate, or the way
breath brings you to the borders of your body.

Sometimes it bares its teeth, shows its bones, embraces

and invites. Sometimes it won’t let you in.
The precision of language—a gesture towards the

answer you forgot the question for—this, you say,

pointing in the other
direction, at trees existing for themselves the way you

and I do. And I mean it when I say it—I would do it all

over again, not remembering who
asked for thirst first, for drought break. Small fists

of hail on brown grass—a baby cries—

love is a bullet in the eye.