98poems/pouring

Sometimes I think of how
I poured my heart out,
as though it were a river
fed by rains upstream,
never believing I could
run dry,
forgetting droughts.

Sometimes I think
of how I always gave
all there was to me,
to whomever happened to be
there for the night,
or afternoon,
of how I let them
take without impunity,
of how I put the pink dress on,
pastel or fucshia,
of how I put the flower
behind my ear,
in fact or metaphor,
and went out into the night,
the rain pouring down,
my heart pouring out.

1/28/98