For all time,
the rain was pouring—yet I stayed dry.
My garments soaked outside,
yet I was parched inward.
My skin, my lips,
drenched beyond the windows
of my thirst.
My poems,
all my papers,
my very identification,
turned unidentifiable—
everything that could be me,
everything but me and my aridness.
Never could be candle-like,
nor like a candlelight,
living in the moment—
yet never trapped in a single one
always a mutinous of encirclement
always dancing
yet never in the same cadence.
I whisper to myself:
Oh, when will this wetness
breathe life
into these souls?
