The First Rain Reminds Me Of The Rising Summer Dust. The Rain Doesn't Remember The Rain Of Yesteryear. A Year Is A Trained Beast With No Memories. Soon You Will Again Wear Your Harnesses, Beautiful And Embroidered, To Hold Sheer Stockings: You Mare And Harnesser In One Body. The White Panic Of Soft Flesh In The Panic Of A Sudden Vision Of Ancient Saints.