The Rain by Robert Creeley

The Rain

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.