torrent

it is raining
outside. small
puddles of oceans
are forming on the threshold 
of our house/
and on the surface
   of her hand//
as she cup them.

it is raining
      outside. 
and on the doorstep
I stand, carrying
a towel, watching her./

like raindrops falling from
her lips, slowly,
            she tells me 
that contrary to beliefs,

the poetry
writes
the
poet.

not the other way around. 
certainly, not the other 
       way around.

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