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?