Poems

Let that fine rain fall

In this dark truth
that opens its cloaks/robes and its intoxicated tides to protect us,
that opens its sad wings to drive/frighten us away,
to say yes,
let that fine rain fall before the threshold;
let it fall like the beating of wings, like a momentary irruption.
 
Like a messenger who, soaked and burning with fever,
comes from far,
brings the sealed documents/orders, brings the words.
But the drawing of the rain stretches/extends
and does not allow one to hear. It doesn't allow one to see
what is happening. And it is that
what comes near,
what talks to us
and seizes us by the shoulders forcefully,
what shouts at us and shakes us is the rain,
is the limit/boundary/horizon that gets blurred/fades away.
 
We shiver, burning, in front of that door,
in front of that drawbridge that no-one lowers.
No-one prepares to listen.
 
This dark truth, this oscillating lightness
like the murmur of a great many bats,
all feeling their way,
all appearing/springing up at once in the awake
galleries of the blood, all trying to
get out of the towers.
 
[In order] to say yes,
let that fine rain fall before the threshold,
let it fall on the walls;
 
let it erase them