Rain

by Christopher Raley

 

Last night memory called me awake.

3:30 am like broad daylight.

 

In the livingroom rain crackled

against the south facing window.

I watched it streaking globe-like kingdoms

 

of streetlight’s twin boundaries in air

and sidewalk.  Identically

yellow and shining and empty.

 

I was born into a drought

and have never forgotten rain’s

first claim of wonder on my eyes.

 

Now I tell all things in two states:

one is dry, featureless, brown,

and the other chained yet wild,

 

fanciful and falling.

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