Rain

This rain is ancient.

It falls as if it has been falling forever,

dissolving the boundaries between night and stone,

between leaf and gutter.

The city lets it in, absorbing each drop like a rootless tree

drinking deeply from the sky.

Look at the street, each crack swollen with water,

each puddle a small world suspended,

holding the breath of buildings,

the long stretch of streetlights

as if searching for something lost.

A man pauses at a bus stop,

staring at his own ghost in the glass,

wondering how many times he’s worn that face

without knowing.

The rain has a way of softening the edges,

turning everything to reflection- not just the city,

but the thoughts you didn’t know you had.

I am both here and elsewhere,

caught between leaving and staying,

between the night and whatever tomorrow pretends to be.