And the warm rain, I guess it is a tortured thing.
I thought the violence of its fall a fierce form of something cool,
a carefree attitude, but standing in the heavy heat of it
I know its angry mourning on my skin. Still,
just beneath my ribs the blood thumps happily along,
self-consumed in joy and steadiness, and my cheeks flush
a little from humidity, or guilt, these strong dry bones
still strangers to sorrow and wind.