Rain
Those are the dogs’ voices
corroding the night,
mouths moving from street
to street under the rain
which is emptied also
on to our balconies.
I imagine this rain
seeping into your sleep,
and that you dream
of four walls of rain,
counting them,
giving each of them a name.
This one is a rain of hair,
and this other is a rain of shingle;
while this is a rain of pear-trees,
and the last a rain of clocks.
Each comes with its own breath,
walking with its own tread.
And each rain is talking to you:
one dressed as your mother,
one sighing like your sister,
one skittering like daughters;
while the last is the utterings
of all our fathers.