in cloud's belly)

come to the rain, where cedar
tongues lap the surf, where granite's
hard retina shuts to weeping, and
ocean's fever cooled by seawind,
waterfalls cradling a fetus lullaby,
bring your sorrow, to this
underworld of moss, your feet
rooting hopeless and green, bones
spongy as driftwood, and no one listening
except the rain —

come to the rain, where streets slick
with sedatives, skid of tire and
pain and oily compassion, where the
years swirling down rusty grates,
and the teary sockets of stone
towers, and mortgaged souls smothered
by fog, bring your bankrupt,
your offering, cry the city as it
floods into sky, and no one in love
except the rain —

come, come to the rain, where
the rush of grief in whitewater,
where storms smash the fingers of
mountains, and empires drowning
in the swirl of forest, where fern
and dogwood nestle a dripping
heart, and voices sliding into
bog, bring your porous skin,
your thirsty joy, where no one
except the rain —

© Robert Martens