It has already been one week, and I'm still so everlasting tired; I think this sleep will reach my bones one day and melt them straight out of my body. My brain and metaphorical heart are out of sync. And yet my feet keep moving, even when they should stay put. Even when they ache to be rested, but there's no rest for the weary, and there are many miles to go. Chin up, head up, walk tall, keep moving; all good advice in theory.

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.

The Rain, Robert Creely