Thinking of Verlaine
Its raining in my heart and I feel like crying
But I resist owing to a head cold
and a general richness—
because this is sorrow
not some boyhood thing
and the rain sends me to you:
“Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville.”
You see? It rains
where my neighbors thin windows
were left ajar, and they can’t hear a thing.
Planet of the Blind 