In this place the rain has fallen like this forever – a mist, the monsoon downpour and its white noise. Then the forest, the edge of a forest where blackbirds call meekly and woodpigeons shelter on the curved branch.
Lightning cracks through everything in vanishingly small moments. And thunder unites.
Spaced along the eternal border are houses, backing on to the woods and in each, the back door is open and swings slowly since the wind is slow. Raindrops fleck the glass, and wet the mat.
In the center of each garden, one of the risen stands, staring into the swaying woods which moves with the shifting intensity of the rain. It is warm, and their clothes are wet. They never look away. They want nothing except to continue to look. They are granted this.
The lord’s prayer dances on their lips, but it changes nothing, and means nothing. Still they call it, whisper it, softly. Its sound is completely lost in the rain.
In her voice the death of the stars peeks out
as she cries in unknowing on the train
the vast machinations have no doubt
but she is consumed by it
and an instant erasure at the sound of the caring
who made the right move, as if by chance
and quiet stupefaction takes the air
and relief for the others, who sat in the carriage
occasionally throw her a glance.
That we must each pass through uncaring torment
in a world we made, but not made for us
is the darkest blot on the soul of each one
and we see it again in the birth and tribulations
with moments of quiet in the stellar sun.