The cold rain feels so good on my face
heated as I am, for how long I don’t know.
Dim winter tells me to make my own heat,
so I burn like a madman everything in sight.
Cold rain falls like music on a rusty tin roof,
like music on the plastic tarp that covers the lettuce,
like music on the walk and birds and squirrels.
Cold rain falls like tears I refuse to shed –
I’m sorry but not that sorry, no tears, no regrets.

Cold rain falls in pools of funny memory
of strange songs and by-chance perfect photos.
The cold rain feels so good on my skin
heated as I am by these dreams of touch,
dreams of warm smiles and secret thrills.
Cold rain falls like a thousand lovers saying goodbye.
The beautiful, saintly tears are warm, not cold.
Not cold like this rain, like my pickled finger tips,
the tears flow like a river in my memory.