1 poem
Husserlian Meditation: Sunday Rain
Front stalled in invisible ranges,
the maths of which we cannot see but drench.
Mere rain, when others but a few hours drive north
are encased in undeniable failings.
My yard never turns the page on green;
even my weeds are lush. I go on pulling rounds
every now and then, when the fertile evils
bore the day and only symbolic real uprootings
of what should and must not have a say
fill the gut of soul with the silence of a filled belly.
As if ravenous I were harvesting, as if the years
of fat cows had ended and it is time to bring in
sullen bails into bolted quarters. But today
the rain has thrown the lock on warm doors
and left me to spy unwanted hoping.
I will rest or my day be just, my purpose
aided by the wise, my words taken as they’re spoken.
The vengeful tired will be the gardeners of Paradise.
Ricardo Pau-Llosa’s eighth book of poetry is due out this fall from his longtime publisher, Carnegie Mellon University Press. He has recent or forthcoming appearances in: Ambit, American Literary Review, Blackbird, Burnside Review, Colorado Review, The Common, Ekphrasis, Hotel Amerika, Ilanot Review, Stand, Vayavya, and others.