Revising the rain

(Only love can break your heart)

Translating the rain is a dangerous business,
in the past the priest or rabbi took on the mantle
of expectation. But you knew from the very start
which mountain range the rain came from.
Your languid, watery eyes can be deceiving in rain.
Fountains are rain corralled, water on show. I’m tempted
into sleeping on your neck. A servitude of roses suffices.
Time passes and nothing happens. The sea is calm.
From which green bay the rolling sea came to spy on me
I do not know. This water is deep, but not at all clear.
Like marooned lagoons on tropical Islands are lost to me.
A watery fantasy.

You knew from the very start
that in my heart of hearts
I do not have a way to deal with the sea, its magnitude, majesty
drinking water is a better sort of wound for me.
Scuttling across the floors of not-so-silent-seas.
Water wishes, from the very beginning,
that human hands remain unpolluted by blood.
The key to Handel’s water music
is hidden in the secret garden, where the door is always closed
and where the monsoon puddles amass their own peculiar infamy of regret.
Who can live without stories? Water dilutes the tears of the years.
Simply astonishingly wet before you know it
You are. Water has that urge to repeat: tides, moons, menstrual cycles.
When I reach the end of your hand
you become the bridge across the most troubled water,
stuck on the verge of doubt, despair;
Fear death by drowning.
Eject me from the river of life,
fill the lake that will wash me clean.
Soak me, now, in the sun
as I break it to you:
Dreams do come true.
Passing clouds, waves, tides
I went and went and went
took the shade of this old water tree with me,
even though she was tired and broken,
I’d love to see you
kiss the sun with wet lips
drink lyric water
seè our hearts melt.

John Keats died in Rome aged twenty-five on February 23rd, 1821 and is buried at the Cemitero Acattolico — the so-called Protestant Cemetery in Rome. On his blessed gravestone the following epitaph is carved, at the strict behest of the poet: “HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER.”

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