Rain, all-enduring rain
that afternoon in the country cemetery:
a dripping, placid rain,
a rain intended to stay.

Dull, quiet fields all about us.
A closed horizon.
Tricklings of rain on the gravestones,
the freshening smell of grass.

The dead were there beneath us—
who they had been didn’t matter.
Future and past didn’t matter,
not even our two dear selves.

I kissed you on the lips then
(there were rain-drops on your forehead)
and you drew your body closer
as we made that moment ours.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 14 Number 2, on page 34
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