Caveat: Poem #813

The raindrops fall, suggest,
and ruminate on wood,
on steel, as if possessed,
as if their tapping could
interpret sweeping time
or render grasping trees
immobilized; their rhyme,
their syncopated tease
of meanings never found –
unfindable besides –
just apophenic sound
and rhythm that just slides
all down the edges till
the world dissolves its will.