How is Laura?
Did you meet little Anne?
O yes, ‘Tis raining
baroque architraves
in Geneva.

Souls like hers!
The timid smile;
a pomegranate.
O yes! ‘Tis raining
in Roman Gaul as
the locals prostrate.

Before electric nights,
a downpour of arches,
your rough bottle
and sour perfume,
the thrustful gleam.

Please sign this wet petition.
Bring his body home.
It was going too well,
O yes, trumpet solos
for the lost boys, the rain.