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Vincent Van Gogh  Enclosed Field in the Rain

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It’s frivolous, this rain,
with its
.            unreasonable claims
.                         
on our silence.
You stalk the hallway,
I crush
.            tears in my fist.
.                         I’ve taken
to rearranging books
on the shelf, first
.            alphabetically,
.                         then by the year
of a writer’s
.            death.
.                         Orphan books.
I seem
.            to love them more
this way.

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First published in Tilde: A Literary Journal, Issue 3, March 2019

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