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The God of Rain

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Chris Powici

I know you

your face like a pool of leaves
your long hands
that way you have of speaking
in many quiet, wayward tongues.

Grass, rivers, vole-fur – when you fall
you fall from grace
into more grace

and if the sun gets too close
if its light blinds
you hide from us, in the trees, like a moth.

© Chris Powici

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