If the rain apologizes as
it falls for falling then we are kin.
I drag my grey noise
down the corridor
to my desk and I drag my grey
noise across the page.
A soft applause goes
up, a curtain call of rain
wetting the whistles
of the leaves into green laminate.
When I look up
I think of your chest hair.
The lichen look on.
We both live in a state
of expectancy,
a state of looking out of one
window and then another
which goes to show that
windows are eyes
more patient.
If the snake fears molting
before it molts
then I am like the snake.
And if not, then I remain
nothing like a snake.
I wet my lips,
mnemonic device
of the universe that I am
and read to myself aloud
and getting louder.