Why does rain in the movies always mean sadness?
Why does rain imply sex in the novels of Yukio Mishima
as my boarding school English teacher once informed us?
Why does the rain sound like stampeding baby feet
on my cottage roof as I sit down to write morning pages?
Why do I not have the words for rain the way Eskimos
do for snow: do we not have thirty-two varieties of sadness?
Or sex? Or longing? Now the rain has thinned into harp strings.
Now it has brought fog to the wood pile. Now it has returned
with the vengeance of bullets that dissolve into puddles.
No one should decide what the rain means in the novels
of Yukio Mishima, but the lovers themselves, plotting
their lives under an umbrella as loud as a typewriter
clackety-clacketying with the downpour of news.
Whenever they chose to, they can drink from the sky.
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