walk with me,
         into the yawn of a moon
                              that's the night,
grieving the last zenith,
                the solstice,
gathering round it's
geometry a welcome
behaviour.
     so unto the rain...
drinking...
     with one arm clenching
a glass of *** and
ms. pepsi,
  the other outstreched
into the night....
   supposedly "counting"
raindrops...
indeed, counting raindrops
kissing the hand...
            drop by drop,
and the memory of running
barefoot in the rain with
my aunt, who was only several
years older than me,
    and our great-grandmother,
who began reading
                  me the bible...
the solemn care for memory,
as me walking in
the rain...
               i'm loyal to my
memories, having abandoned
the care for dreams...
   indeed,
an arm outstreched from a window,
attempting to count
  the number of raindrops
            "pinching" it;
and of those who loved,
  know that love cannot
                      be domesticated...
like a fox, like a wolf,
   it's fleeting, crimminal,
                    wild...
    it cannot be domesticated with
either home, roof, or a cross
slung around one's neck...
               love is primeval,
it has no historical balance...
       rain! fall!
   fall onto my outstreched hand!
let me count your lampoon
of a waterfall!
                come juno's tears!
  come, dear rain!
             let my outstreched
hand count what you propose
to have been falling!
          sooth the tongue,
let the zunge escape the mouth
and the clutches of teeth
and embody some other part
of the body...
   the long roman handshake,
   nearing elbows...
                   let the tongue escape
the mouth, and the clenched
          pairing of ivory
                   carpet, and ceiling,
jittering over a piece of meat,
   like the twins might wish to
do so, chattering over
           a minus-calories'
                       worth of opinion.