The time will come
                                when it starts to rain
in your quiet room,
grief researching you;
its curious, small thumbs on your closed eyes,
on your pulse;
or smudging the ink of this,
or dipping into that glass of wine.
The moment stammers.

Too intimate,
                      relentless biographer
poring over your ruined books,
persistent, till every surface is soaked
as though you lamented, night and    day,
for a lifetime;
or were penned, invented.
Leave the room to the rain…

the clock’s hands float
                                     on its drowned face
and photographs swim from their frames
and hours are sorrow, rain, rain, sorrow…
why climb the stairs to lie down there,
be drenched, tasted, known
by the pitiless rain?
You have dead parents.