A year of rain and ten years of being lost,

but flowers still grow under my bed

and there’s something that reaches through my window.

The criss-cross of my legs, hips in low puddles,

I didn’t know how submerged I was,

each drop like a dissolved lover

pushing through what became such a graceless heart.

There’s nothing so forlorn like the way I saw it,

but how great are these wild affections,

out of the days of dreaming of sunrays.