I want to
cut loose the moon...

you come
with sudden rain...

No, I will not burn
this poem...

The old house on the hill sits empty
its still structure a thousand tongues of silence...

Raindrops descend,
ruthlessly pounding...

First rain, first look, first time my name
became softer in your mouth...

Here, in the Downpour—
Foreign streets...

First rain...
Ink bleeding through the cracks of sky...

In the fog of fleeting moments,
I see you grasping at shadows...

To the park, I saunter,
on a crisp autumn dawn...