The seniors read Ali’s poem, “Rain,” and discussed the images, language, memories and sensations it evoked for them. H asked me for the etymology of “rain,” as he always does, each class. Where does this word come from? That word? He understands his experience through structure, and the word is the first way in. (“Look on your little machine there,” he tells me.) I promise him a portable OED.

We talked about how each second line of Ali’s poem ended with the word “rain.” How surprised everyone was, to not have noticed that before.

Next week, H came in late and picked up the assignment waiting for him on the table. “Take one of these first lines from these 20 poems, and continue the poem.” Instead of asking questions, he just began to write. And he wrote full lines, not notes, as he usually does. He just went right in. Later, he showed me the handwritten poem and how each line ended with the same word, too, “just like ‘Rain.’”

“But mine is ‘March,’” he said. He read his poem aloud: It is the first/mild day of March/Here are my best/thoughts of March/… I moved east & west/Following order forward march. “Forward march,” he said, is what he tells himself every morning. Something from the service that he never left behind.