IT RAINS, MY SON…
TO THE READER
My soul belongs to me no matter how I offer pieces,
on every page to strangers passing by.
My soul belongs to me. No one can recognize it whole
with its formidable darkness and blinding lights.
Like the unstripped mine for gold, coal, or perhaps lead,
the dredging has bared only the first layer
of joys, and the black floodwaters of pain.
A deeper volcano rumbles underneath it all.
My soul is that mine, only partially excavated.
Who knows how many new pains will burrow
and shaft, blast by blast? It belongs to me.
Today I regret that so many samples were passed
to onlookers when I intended all the while
to give it whole, to only one or two.