It’s raining where I am,
where I’m waiting for rain
to let up, and come home.
As any man, come finally home
to himself, beyond rain,
mipht make a poem of his name,
I’m not far from that poem.
I’d wait it out, and begin
by writing my name: I’m
a man in rain beyond home
(and beyond myself, and rain,
a man who might write a poem);
but the name of this poem
is not mine, but rain
Its the distance fom home
I still am, the rain I’m
not, but im, by which I learn
to become, and write to begin.
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