when we met it rained
when we met it rained. a hot
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
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.
Comments about this poem (when we met it rained by Robert Brown )
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