When it is raining, you can think of nothing dry and warm—
Its bulbous friction wet against the crag
and jagged jawline underneath those saggy eyes
without the eggs, between the breakfast sexes,
out the door and have it on your palm with jam.

like dancing matryoshka pull and bow
from smaller droplets drain and down the
pinnacle of Church where steeples knell
and sell the prophet’s swill. oh, well.

then-enrobing sorries swell and never mercy
gives or sins confess, but there they are, aside a cottage door:
wet and wild as sometimes children play
but innocent and pure at the end of every day.

when it is raining, see, there is nothing but the rain
through everything, with all its bulbous friction running
through the din, and not a thing is seldom like it heard.