if to the colour of midnight to a more than darkness(which is myself and Paris and all things)the bright rain occurs deeply,beautifully
and i(being at a window in this midnight) for no reason feel deeply completely conscious of the rain or rather Somebody who uses roofs and streets skilfully to make a possible and beautiful sound:
if a(perhaps)clock strikes,in the alive coolness,very faintly and finally through altogether delicate gestures of rain
a colour comes,which is morning,O do not wonder that
(just at the edge of day)i surely make a millionth poem which will not wholly miss you;or if i certainly create,lady, one of the thousand selves who are your smile.
