Spring 1980 • Vol. II No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1980 |

Rain Falls. It Dries….

Rain falls. It dries. Sun shines. A horse whinnies. Look on at the world's minute flutters. In the depth of a workshop a lamp burning, cat meowing, girls with clouded fingernails sit there giggling, sewing. They're eating cucumbers. It trumpets. Scissors snap. They forget that Monday, Tuesday are so alike and drab. Beyond the corner a cologne dealer is having his day, I also know his wife, from her perfume's bouquet. Her predecessor was old. She died. And like anyone else, they plain forgot her. Like the square root of twelve. They do know how to forget. Yesterday's dead are nicely frozen in their hearts by today's bread. A newssheet flies: now the wind is wearing a paper cap. They also forgot a poet. I know him. He's still at it. He still goes to a cafe. I see him, less on than off, the shoulder of his dark suit is all dandruff. What else, in this poem? Shall I maybe let it drift as does an undressing plane tree its ancient leaf? They'll forget a

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.