Again, the endless northern rain between us 
like a veil. Tonight, I know exactly where you are,  
which row, which seat. I stand at my back door.  
The light pollution blindfolds every star.

I hold my hand out to the rain, simply to feel it, wet  
and literal. It spills and tumbles in my palm, 
a broken rosary. Devotion to you lets me see 
the concert hall, lit up, the other side of town,

then see you leave there, one of hundreds in the dark,  
your black umbrella raised. If rain were words, could talk,  
somehow, against your skin, I’d say look up, let it utter  
on your face. Now hear my love for you. Now walk.