Night Rain
(For Melissa)
Night rain unconsciously polishes
air to metallic flint
as though I could hook my fingernails
on the shards, as though the riddles
of space became holiday weather.
Climbing.
Bowing down.
The moon makes a lens that dismantles
storm.
I can no longer resist.
I put my antennae up.
No more
past tense.
Snow gives in,
tundra mosses rest
their rusty undersides
now on flow.
You asked me to explain
why humans are so scared,
why we make wars that
splinter the listening,
stop the stream's assurance.
How long did I search
for my father's hand
instead of hearing this rain?
