I do miss those monsoons. This I had originally titled “The rain again.” It always did fit my mood back then. In the desert, at that time, it seemed to rain almost every day. Particularly very late at night. It was light, and beautiful, and its aroma was like nothing else anywhere in the world.
About me all reality doth spin,
The ground beneath my feet doth buck and twist,
My eyes alight on anything herein,
And will perceive its panic-worthy list.
And panic is the most confused of sound
Which swells and whirls around my pounding ears,
Confusing and directionless: its sound,
Exacerbating measureless: my fears.
Perceive I not the matter I may touch,
As whether hard or soft, or hot or cold.
Although such nature hardly matters much,
such things are all completely uncontrolled.
My digits, my appendages feel thick
I think I am most positively sick.
This strikes me somewhat
As a bit too Majorcan.
I must be slipping.
Ode to my virus?
Am I now losing my touch?
I dearly hope not!
