there's a drought, maybe
and it finally rains.

we were thirsty and thick-headed
and relishing in dry fields of wheat
running through the weeds
and burning our skin
on the rough edges.

all the rough edges.

dear stranger,
I knew you in the trees,
in dissonance,
in the lights in the dark street
as you view them
through a rain-streaked bus window.

it's rained here before.
we have turned out all right.

a long time ago,
I wrote something under my skin.
beneath the layer you've touched,
beneath the parts that burned.

I wrote:
"you are to be art for people to look at,
the kind that people admire quietly,
not the sad kind,
not the kind that makes people think."
and I haven't forgotten it.

I fail to remember
that you're real sometimes,
that anything is real.
pull me back into the circle.

every light is the sun.
every sun is another lamppost.
you are the light.

the city burns at night.
I see the glare of the flames on your face
and the world is still.
the rain is nothing to worry about.