Rainfall
Rainfall rattles the summer to pieces.
I hear our cadence in its broadcasts;
Its meter and the quiver and the surge.
We are mid-transmission, the sound between
All sounds that sticks like the memory of
Touch. We are unfinished, yet know
That sound for which all sounds were named -
A word, or countless remembered languages
Recalling the moment that all seas
Were innocent rivers drinking away time.
Impermanent rain drums on the skylight.
Follow the water home, just like always;
Just like the damp unravelling Augusts
Insist on souls that were once caterpillars
That were once mulch that was once starlight
As the first sigils to lift us from the dirt.
Sodden air returns the memories of books
Like memories of sleep, soft and vivid
As the moth-scents of moon-glow on wet glass.
We taste the time when the world was first named
In such incense, recalling from other selves
The true purpose of tongues. Here I can hear us,
The arrhythmia of raindrops becoming
The constituent parts of your voice and chest -
Disjointed but radiant in constellation.
Perhaps now we are more than just templates
Of people. Perhaps here is the space
We are put together entirely.
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