Rain is sometimes for poetry, sometimes for defecation


 

 

I know, my intercourse with the rain is limited to these:

I watch cylinders of fruit dance in the evening table

and we clutch hands as a rain intervenes,

Roofs patter on our heads

As angels blast these lines as a losing romantic

that is out of date and out of tune.

 

We in the archipelago is distinguished by the beers we drink

and the shapes of our comfort rooms.

In another land, I could imagine a dug hole in the soil

and everything improvised.

Stench must be forgiven.

Rain must be welcomed as it follows the

model of the flushed water.

Or one can think vice versa:

Technology is the toiled bowl; natural bounty is the rain.

Everything is embraced in nature.

And while I forego the mushy bluntness in rains,

others jubilate as it washes all the stink not meant for flushing.

 

In some places, this is alien.

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