Rain Cannot Know
Rain cannot know where it will fall-
in the cemetery, playground,
in the alley between phone calls,
on shins and feet of umbrella'd lovers.
All is pursuit of wet and salt,
so the nurse will tell;
the ink driven by monsoon
to find a page;
so tells the sculptor in his atelier.
Ask the motel maid gathering sheets.
She will say the same.
How are you shaped-
in tears, evening talk of lovers
encircled at the waist,
oils mixing at the easel
in a sunlit place?
A nurse once told me,
the sea is every place.