RAIN.

RAIN.

Rain gleams on the edge of reason.  I find sanity in the simplest

Gestures, the smallest things.  Partake in the necessary dreaming

Of dreams.  Go and fold softly, like bitterness in my mouth.

Don’t talk to the flowers unless they talk back.  Hatred spans

From flesh and moves with flesh and broken bones, unlike broken bibles,

Strewn about a motel floor.  She is there with him, hearing him as he speaks,

Hearing his gentle words like stones on tables.  Glass strikes against glass.

A woman screams down the street, she is being smothered by a blanket.

It is wintertime.  The woman in white is wrecking havoc again, creating

Unheard of things.  She doesn’t fall far from the tree, or the building,

Which was made from trees.  He spoke to her like he was speaking to the night,

And he was not dreaming.  Soiled worms are found in dusty sheets.  Whatever

Noise there was in the flesh, his eyes whisper in the lonely night, his eyes

That are mine and are not.