Treasure Island

Robert Brown


when we met it rained


when we met it rained. a hot
mist fell
and covered its tracks; so the

paper wouldn't know.

i believed, in secret, it was just a
fog, moving south

as it does, angled-playing rain.

but i could not find the right
time to tell, the

difference and then
it stopped. rather, we stopped
calling it

luck. calling it how it was,
when blinded by the mist and

the feeling you get when touching.

if that's what it was? niceties
not spoken, but

released was broken with the fog.
rain drenched silhouettes...
a guise in comment

of the mind. but being optimistic
i'll too say it rained that day.

Submitted: Monday, November 01, 2010

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