If the rain thinks
that this is an emergency,
can we organize it
into something like speech?

Never a mountain wanted
over rain,
its formlessness is a
repetition tho
of what no one is quite

Nothing can sleep like the
rain, whose irony is never
quite far behind.
Each drop an
erasure of what
comes before.

If the rain is an abstraction
then each of its bodies
rise, perilously, in black and
white. Drifting. Breathing.

The rain is a door
that opens, and closes
like an eyelid straining
to watch,
against sleep,
its first opening.