This appeared in the Deronda Review.
The pattern of the rain on glass
Is law bound, but I've never known
That law, and when the drops surpass
All reason in the shape and speed,
Only a textbook could have shown
An explanation or a need.
This is a horsie, that me mum.
There is Aunt Sophie, warped with pain.
I see three rodents, deaf and dumb
And blind. If God would play this game,
There would be floods on plains in Spain.
There would be dead without a name;
But God knows what God knows. He may
Have planned the shape of little drips,
Which drops abscond and which seek stay
Of execution. I don't know.
Stream after stream, the water slips
Where wracks of able seamen go.
I've heard it said that when the horn
Is played in court, the waters will
Reveal lost bones, and men reborn
Will dance upon their former veins.
Deep waters run till then and still,
The windows clean, those shining panes.
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