Rain is silent, moon is hiding its own secrets.
But I am a loquacious astray and lonely wrack.
When gasps are gratuitous I don't know if they are needless.
And when the wind is talking,
I want to converse back.
There are letters in the clouds but I don't hear them.
Or maybe I don't listen,
Maybe I don't know
The flower language with its copying and its stem.
And this instant seems irrelevantly slow.
And all the thinge I lost and cannot stand.
Well I lost them in the grasp of my own may.
But I never fathom, no, I never understand.
When the wind is talking,
There's nothing left to say.
Post #699
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