Poetry Under the Rain: William Blake

It's raining tonight.

Light, fine rain that apparently does not wet the earth, though it soaks the soil after a few minutes.

It's raining.

It is almost invisible; I can scarcely feel it on my bare skin.

Under the rain, William Blake takes my heart. “I have something I want you to read,” he says.

I read Auguries of Innocence.

Sweet like wine are a few lines before I fall asleep.

Sometimes I seek poetry, and

sometimes poetry seeks me.

It is an exchange of human fluids, and

human needs.

Now

I am in peace and I can rest…