Day 17-- Nocturne

Rain at Night

When the rains come through the monstrous dark
like Riverdance on my rooftop, I pretend
the water speaks Gaelic and says impolite things to me
about Yeats, who never truly learned the tongue, though
he was aspirational in that regard, as we all are, these days
about so much: the dream of a clean house, a trip abroad
a lush and useful garden. At night everything might be.
By a wet sacrament, our grace is our forgetting.