The rain has no space in it for hopelessness
or hope — its tactile
aural braille
spells away everestless longing for elsewhere’s
president drift. Drop
to drop,
it is the one identical tranquil outpour,
gentle beyond the creep of thought,
idea’s nadir.
An empty bedroom heard through rain
is what sleep’s marvellous nervous system must sound like from within,
if we could sleep and wake —
both listening and lucid —
in exactly the same time.
Chinaman Creek 