Rain at night grew out of the day's dust heaps
Of poems ,hiding, incubating and lying tangled
In clouds of dust not settled on sleeping heads.
Pillows search imagery in major street corners
Of the mind, when you cease to exist in sound,
Your quietness mistaken for eyes closed to life.
Rain is dancing in drain pipe in a steady pouring
From the roof , its snakes slithering in streams
On the metal road, towards the rain water pits
Where they enter the burrows to sleep in rocks.
Not sleeping, they join the other snakes there.
Rain has surprised the moths still buried in holes
Their wings still in the making, their bodies itching
To die on the cream of light on our window glass.
They will come out slowly to embrace their deaths
And tomorrow there will be a rich raking of wings.