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Draining Song

Rain like a history of sonnets. Mud, overturned. The old f lames buried and by now so sweet they forget their own sweet names.

Or I do. Fall-apart time. Day-slide. Session of mists. Sorely, very sorely, missed. What I’m saying is, there must be a line between corrupt and corrupted. I’m saying the local volcano has not recently interrupted.

I’m saying we stopped it. Politeness, like ignoring the night blindness of the knight in shining pun whose perfect kindness was to gather your panoply of woes, heave-ho, and throw them, like so many cautions, at the closed window.

What stuck narrowed your options. Welcome to the club. I tried to be grim with grace like Seidel and there’s the rub-

ble to prove it. The grit. For old Rydell I shook a nyctalopic tit and cheered on the rain whose sonnet is a history of it.

[Part III]

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