Again it rains. Again I am aroused
by mystery. Again I am confused
by epistemology. I think I know
the volume that her dress obscures, or how
the clouds collect the condensation of
the bayous, but do I? Again I wake
into a world of light, again I rise
up full of blood for her irrationally
repeating what I said before. I don't
pretend to know the way she tilts her hips
on me or how the molecules collect
themselves in tidy patterns. Clouds occult
the Sun the way a garment tries to hide
my beloved from me behind a thread.
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