before after the rains

before after the rains

and in the quiet,
the deliciousness of street rain will cut through wet hair,
bare footprints on flagstones,
white linen and the great howl
of how cold is cold enough
and what could ever warm you up
after you've saturated your bones
- no one could save me,
even if I wanted them to,
I've always been too feisty for help
and maybe I was
always this fading dusk,
a frail poltergeist waiting for a darkness,
more than dark enough.
What do moths do when it rains?
Does the light still call their desire
from there under that droplet battered leaf?
How do they hold themselves back,
when on a dry night windowpane crashing is the flavour?
Where are the others as lost as me,
shaking for an answer,
hoping for silence?
Why did I ever begin to think about my wants,
or yours?
Look at the mess,
there the debris,
this is the debrief,
before after the rains.