‘Tis not from the sky that we hide

when frowning clouds flagellate the leaves of grass

with liquid beads,

but from ourselves,  from our ignorance.

Who of us is sound enough to face

the knowledge that we are no better dry

than wet, no worse wet than dry?

It is a notion too pure to compass,

too true to absorb,

too real like light.

Better that we cringe in desperate shelters and shiver

with fear of fever.