There is a poem by Francis Ponge about the rain (la pluie) that I am trying to remember as I look out the window, past lilacs and forsythia, to sheets of the stuff falling on a street lamp. The poem is hiding in a book, just out of sight, on my bookshelf. I am (happily) pinned under my snoozing daughter and can't reach it.

Well, is it correct to say that a Ponge poem is about something? Perhaps it's better not to.