Rain with its wet daub on the window Reminds him of the way memory tends To bleed into time while that old pain Stays stagnant like a mossy puddle.

Reminds him of that high room In which a lamp flickered against A rained out city horizon with its Sharp lines of steel buildings and Soft curves of church copulas, Then a grey wash of a failed painter.

Reminds him of that afternoon With its forgotten winter date, With its tight embrace of sleep, In which it was impossible to foresee This season of watery light that Now seems to stay constant even In the absence of rain’s blur.