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Night Rain

October 8, 2007

I sleep with the quarterlight
half open, tipped
like a questing lip
into the dark.

Night rain is falling
and the talk
is all of transformation:
black on black in threads

and swatches, gravity diamonds
heading south down window
panes; the air itself
partitioned into beads

and space. Fluctuation, shift —
this parcel of earth self-
ministers, self-heals. And I
bear witness whilst below

my body ticks backwards
like a novelty clock —
new times, new intervals,
deep secret bells and

slipping gears. Yes,
just outside, a skin
and filament away,
the heft of falling rain

in space, against
the leaves and on
the running earth
is like breathing.

by Dick Jones

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  1. October 11, 2007 at 7:32 am

    I can’t think of any adequate words to leave in appreciation for this poem so I’ll just leave an eloquent silence.

  2. November 5, 2007 at 9:22 am

    I loved the opening stanza with that window ‘tipped / like a questing lip’ – so subtly suggestive. The poem itself really conjures that time before we sleep when so much of the world is still awake, humming away to itself.

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