24

When the rain falls at night
It is beautiful to know
The manifest world
An elaboration of nothing:
The garden softly assuming
An aspect of the cloud,
The dessicated soil riven,
Catacombs becoming cataracts:

They broke a proton
And ninety five percent
Was nothing—nothing.
There is a commanding lack
We are the shell of somehow.
Rain arches down out of
A cloudbank, in darkness.
Our shapes, precipitate,
Ride on the deep.