Beneath the downspout,
a hollow gouged by the rain.

I hear the drips that begin
on the roof, that slide

down the windowpanes.
The gutter spills

what it can’t carry all
by itself down copper

chimes; and it’s true,
what washes one part

of the world could cover
the world. The river floods

its banks, and in a day
or so we hope it recedes.

Why not love again
like each moment

is astonishment? Why not lie
in each other’s arms in the soft

blue room formed by rain,
in the echo of its copious sounds?

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.