How intimate it makes you feel,
this autumn rain inside my palm,
the dripping cars, the wetted trees,
the slipping slope of a forgotten craft –
but not quite yet.
We are compelled to draw these lines
under the studded sky, as if these lines
were drawn adrift another lake, another time,
This can’t be us, surely, so full of hate
and indignation, and insatiable
curiosity, come!, one photo more
to shock us into waves of grief and outrage.
Have we changed? Barely. Pray, do,
but look: how rain soaks locks of hair
across the sand and asphalt.