I watch them from the
Window of the car—
Countless thousands,
Laying their cool, damp kisses
On the streets, ink black
And shining like vinyl…

Tiny droplets of rain, like
Crystals dangling from
The fringe of a chandelier…
Some cling desperately
To the surface of
The glass, afraid of falling.

They seem paralyzed, or
Frozen, like a nightmare.
They are still, while
Others slide like tears,
Pulled down by the weight of
Gravity. They leave behind

A trail of dampened
Streaks…running, running…
They cut vertically
Through the face of my
Reflection, like a scar,
Though no less permanent.

Now here I sit—
A fragment, in the backseat
Of a car. I watch the trees
And houses pass in a colored
Blur, except for the gray,
Which is a constant.


All I am appears
Unfinished, like a sculpture
Made of matchsticks. I
Have pieces that are
Lost somewhere or scattered,
Not yet glued to me…

The raindrops are still
Kissing the streets, the glass,
My two blue eyes…beneath the
Light I see them glitter...
Much like stars would, if the
Sky weren’t choked with clouds.

I turn from the window,
Swiftly, sharply—I
Do not like what I see.