From a distance, the rain
as if I wouldn’t hear
it gurgling
with the thick hem
of its robe, scraping
the heaven’s floor

“If I knocked, you wouldn’t
open the door,” it said
by my window, pouring
its morning dew
over my cacti spruce

“I had no intention to,” said
I, wee awake, “for big, thunderous things
were not supposed to be kept

He made a low growl, with
a spit on my face
from the open curtain
and breathed,
“So, why were you?”