If I could reach inside
and pull out a string of my own thoughts
for you to swallow and make yours,
I would.
If I could piece together a drill formidable enough
to shatter stone to dust,
I would.

Then, it would be different
than sitting still and letting the rain
thump rhythms against the rooftop;
even though sound cannot find a pathway
to squeeze in between the crevices,
somehow, a cloud manages to condense above me
and then, I am soaked in the sky's tears--
then it becomes impossible
to tell its rainfall from mine.

Here instead, I watch you feel around
the edges of my glass box,
searching for an entrance and finding none.
Here instead, nothing penetrates
but wind and clouds.