Also in the current issue of The Manhattan Review


Rain, rain, go on


and rain. I’ve been given

this time by my mother.

I’ve known about water

forever, and fear

is no stranger either.


Rain. Go on. Rain.

The fires burn


no matter what I do,

the fires of my fathers,

and will sear me

one day, maybe soon,

and also you.


Burn, go on and burn.

We are not much —


light, ash, particulate

of the erotic and such

temporary tragedies

as interrupt it. To call us

seeds would serve,


or waterbeads, or sparks.

Go on. On and on.


— Richard Hoffman

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