Untitled Poem #178

I will one day name all those that remain nameless.

When the biting cold blooms into a slow burn

I can no longer feel the rain on my head.

This is what is real.

This is tangible,

Yet intangible

All at once.

But it is more real

Than your photographs,

Your poetry,

Your art,

Your songs.

This is life.

So bend your neck 'wards the sky,

Open your mouth --your tongue -- wide.

The rain pours

And streams down the hill,

And pools at your feet,

And dips into the shallows of your skin,

And clings to your hair,

And slips past your lips.

This is what is real.

This.

You can wrap it in as many pretty words as you like,

But your eloquence,

Or lack thereof,

Is no sweet substitute

For the rain that pours

And the blackened clouds of April.

And when the sun shines again,

And you're back indoors,

And the warm water numbs your fingers and feet,

You will not have much longer to remember

That this is not real.

It is not the same real

As when you dance up and down the blackened tar;

Water surrounds you,

Above you,

Behind you,

Beneath you,

Within you.

The wind pushes past you as if you weren't there at all,

And the calm burn in your feet

Rises slowly through your calves,

Your knees,

Your thighs,

Your stomach --

Until the cold is a blanket,

It's the arms,

It's the bed,

It's the pillow.

This is real.

Don't forget that.

Words on white screens,

Parodic violence,

Fickle friendship,

"Revolutionary" art

Are mere thoughts

Compared to this.

This is real.

This.