a pole tent, an architecture
and the cathedrals in Rome also
shelter against the rain
I feel dripping wet out here
grinding out the texts that
are supposed to be poems
instead of breathing actual poems
before any text can get
its dirty little hands on them
from the bleached bones of all
these dreary textual remains
the sweet wetness, what little there was
long ago evaporated
and you must meet me halfway
if this is going to work at all
and don’t forget the rain
