The rain came and is going
so quickly. A hole in the awning
above me, rusted through tin:
I love the way it drips wet
onto my shoulder, tap tap
on the roof and the stones
in the garden. Remember
sitting here reading a poem
called Spring? Last year?
Remember? I can’t stop
remembering. I was having
such a nice time in the rain,
but now it’s gone. I have
thought too much about time
and I am here again, and there,
and now and back then. And why
did I love that poem so much?
Because it was the simplest
in the book.
But I’ll sit here now, in the sun
again. I’ll walk the crumbling
steps and dirt paths, and admire
the sculptures that haven’t yet changed.
I’ve misremembered the title, a good sign.
My tongue fizzes. I brought some rosé
this year, so I’ll drink it. The grass is too thick.
Anyway, at least here it will always be warm.