The Rain.

I lay in the rain to let the drops hit me like down­beats
to the next breath, like lit­tle knocks on the apart­ment door
when I lived alone on a Sun­day after­noon and the quiet was
everywhere.

The clouds, mov­ing water around like the sky’s water­ing cans,
start bloated and then dump and then leave
wist­ful and empty
in the wind.