That Was Made By The Rain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The rains start again; it feels good to fill up this
Little world:
To be connected to the other who does not know me
By the cold;
It seems even now we are into the reservoir of all things,
The oubliette of our cell
Nearing the very root of the sea;
And I can sit here in a constellation of myself and look
At her across the class in crepuscule,
And see her fully fashioned out walking in the overgrown
Glade,
Neither now classical or fancy, but crass and crudely made,
Because I made her a meal for myself:
Made her immortal like the dart of a bird too swift to see
And so fanciful;
She smoked and chirruped and laughed at me
Because this was no longer Arizona and she had seen me face
To face and so knew that I could be defeated,
And so she was just that, the weapon to strike down an early god,
So I didn’t have to get out of bed,
But could lie here for hours languorous in pain, listening to the
Music that was made by the rain.