To make

All night the sound had

come back again,

and again falls

this quite, persistent rain.

 

It should ooze between your fingers, gritty and painful. The lime in the mix eating away at the outer layer of skin, the sand abrasively cutting into ones callouses, crusting into the cuticles of the fingers. Each is unique, the batch created of water, cement and skin; shaped in a manner that betrays and exposes each handful smeared and pushed against the mold. Stems of wine glasses coated in thin layers of mortar, gulps are stolen between batches mixed, packed, smoothed. Summer warmth bathed the night, darkness settling in below the oaks, the avocado tree.

 

What am I to myself

that must be remembered,

insisted upon

so often? Is it

 

The wetness of clothes and skin are what seem so pronounced as the rain falls outside now. Filling each bowl with droplets of water, stray leaves mixing, sinking, stirring into the pools. Kissing by candle light, the gentle blue of cigarette smoke rising from an over flowing ashtray, contorting and spindly as it seeps into the air above. In the sunlight of morning, the outline of a body covered in a thin sheet, the sound of deep breathes being taken within states of dreams that are slowly slipping away before waking.

 

That never the ease

even the hardness,

of rain falling

will have for me

 

I image Lorca kneeling at a riverbank, pushing iris and dandelions out into the water, allowing for the current to pull them outward into a stream that leads out to the sea. Corn flower blue socks, blades of grass clinging to his fingers, resisting gravity, holding out from the water below. Angrily a spring shower rises out of the west, bellows of dust rumbling into clouds as the rain marches forward, encompassing his body in the scent of earth, drowning flowers within the muddy banks.

 

something other than this,

something no so insistent–

an it to be locked in this

final uneasiness.

 

She watched me in shadows, a ring of smoke from her right hand, her body languid, relaxed on a reclining chair. Out, twenty meters onto the lawn I waited, uncertain what was about to occur. Easing my shoes off, the top catch of my trousers, a zipper, buttons from my shirt slowly being undone. Undressed, she watched as I folded my clothes carefully, then stepped through the threshold, disappearing. Emerging after a stay in a very different world that reflected the tart of lemons, childhood, family, then rest; I dressed and walked to my waiting love, light and absolved of everything that weighs a person to life. Bending down beside her, we kissed.

 

Love, if you love me,

lie next to me.

Be for me, like rain,

the getting out

 

The fog that envelopes us, encasing us within its moisture. Breathing, we feel the dampness enter into our bodies. It bellows of mystery, sadness, entombment from all that is out beyond our sight and smell. The taste of salty sweat, the robust scent of sex, bite marks, laughter faintly heard still ringing from the night before, lingering like shoe prints brought in from the wet of the outdoors, marking the wooden floors with distinct tracks and motion. Discarded clothing gathered from various rooms,thrown off in haste, in passion. Remembering the responsibilities that wait, out, amongst the droplets, the leaf strewn grounds. In the rain and fog, lights pass and dim, revealing only that which will never be fully seen or understood. Yet, within the moment, the shape of the small of her back, the taste of her earlobes, the scent of her hands lingers. They perfume, exalt, murmur, to all that floats about and above us, that drips to the ground, and flows through everything grey of mid day light.

 

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-

lust of intentional indifference.

Be wet

with a decent happiness.

 

The Rain

by Robert Creeley

 

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About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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