Dis
The Rain
The Rain, falling
is sensed
akin to the trauma
of a body
in a crime photograph.
Like a soul
that's haemorrhaged
all it knew, it spreads
its grief through the pitiless
streets, their surface composure
in relief,
giving rise to other shapes.
The rain is a bruising
- shiner purple,
brilliant blue -
whose humiliated body
from the bottom of despair
moans,
without a word,
"Love".
Page(s) 28
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