Poetry by David Francis
THE SOUND OF RAIN The way it makes everything inside seem dry and yet vulnerable. Lovers love the rain. But to the lonely it hurts, like withheld tears. Strange, the present and cyclical passage of time: this rain now. It dies. For an instant aware you say, “It’s stopped.” Cautiously, as if a hazard. Listening to the rain in pajamas, eyeballs tired from reading, Outlasts the sleeper who wakes, wonders, “Has it rained?” SYLLABLES She only sings four syllables but that doesn’t irritate me. Because I say the same words over and over: “We’re together.” CIRCLE OF CLOUDS Clouds are circling fast come in from the coast and the blue makes the cold less cold but you went away in the middle of the night rolled away on a bus all day inland you’ve been gone longer than you said a man without sleep is like a man dead I see everything gray though the clouds have been pushed by some invisible oar I won’t feel it till you come through that door
David Francis has produced seven music albums, Always/Far: a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books). He has written and directed the films, Village Folksinger
(2013) and Memory Journey (2018). He lives in New York City.
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