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Rain is millions of tiny |
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speech bubbles unused. |
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The collected breaths of mutes |
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and all our silent exhalations |
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where we should've put words, |
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or words we had no one to tell, |
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emptied from clouds |
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like cleaning horns' spit valves, |
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coming back to us now |
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to remind us what we meant to say |
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or that we meant to say something, |
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coming down and dying |
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in one giant quiet |
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on the streets and cars, |
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huzzled like jewels in girls' hair, |
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on the fake wool collar |
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of my bomber jacket |
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and on my glasses an feet. |
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Cut 'em deep and weep out loud |
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Just dust and just a hair in your mouth |
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You're drinking, think you're tonguing something to shout |
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But it's just dust and just a hair in your mouth. |
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And now these empty breathes reflect |
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The feedback of headlights, |
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push leaves and coffee cups |
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to lower altitudes and gutters. |
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Rain is confession weather |
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and we become booths of |
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prayer if we let us. |
