falling so hard it wakes
office workers in their windowless cubicles
so they co me running out
into the parking lot to put up the tops
of convertibles and roll the windows up
and go back inside soaked.
The storm came out of the blue,
unpredicted. Now light appears
like a tear in the edge of the gray,
and the sound subsides, muffled
like drums moving away
to another skirmish
in man endless war.
What is one life when there are, so many,
a few strained faces
walking to the curb, every day
a different house a different family
dressing for a funeral.
The papers left in the station,
or blowing in the links of a fence
are already days away,
The water carried indoors as darkness
on clothing, or lightness on skin,
is a memory of the memory
that begins before we become
who we briefly pretend we are.