I listen to rain from a dry place.
Out of a gray sky rain sings
its loneliness. Nothing can make
the rain hear me. The rain is said
to pelt the glass. Over my pelt, I am
sweatered. I know from the street
warm-looking light is made
rectangle-shaped by my and my
neighbors’ windows.
Under the eaves is a rut worn
into the ground by years of rains
since before I began my renting.
I know rain is pouring down there
in a curtain. I can hear it.
It is cold and dirty. But, rain,
you are new. You were of a cloud,
then the wind took you every way
by your solitary drops. But a greater
force drew you the whole time.
You were of the sky then you arrived
from the sky to my home on the outside.
Now, even in that muddy hole do you
welcome the other rain coming after,
as though you weren’t yet a stranger.
