It is this rain, a stream converging, or
it is those particles which have no mass
occurring in a vortex if this wind
runs to a birded shore. We cannot let
the phonemes loose, or say, as they escape
that anything has purpose, other than

itself, or strange connections. It is A,
or not, and if it isn’t, how could we
conceive of otherness? How could we turn
when we’re not turning from? I know the rain
is insubstantial, wind, but it bends trees
and wings conduct it. Speculate. I know

nothing but sound, and movement. Rivers fall,
cascades are indeterminate, my arms
attract the spray. Her arms move with this wind
her dance articulating something like
affirmatives. I’m weary. Ardent ways
are mine, and pathless, almost there. Like rain. 

Note from the Webmaster: This poem is one of several by Lantry that were lost for 20 years and recently rediscovered...

Bio: William F. Lantry