Rain in the Grass

Last night I listened to the rain
Whispering of scythes in the grass.
I lay in bed alone.

I knew the stars had wrapped themselves
Like blades in rags of clouds and fell
As water onto stone.

The restless wind had seemed to stop
Flipping through leaves like pages torn
From days of salt and foam,

Or had turned back to search old ground
For keys to doors slammed shut, again,
On truths of blood and bone.

Last night I listened to the rain
In the grass outside my window.
I lay in bed alone.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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