In the rain at the end of the day,
Driving the streets,
The wide and black
Streets that do not return
To anyone’s bed,
We sleep alone if we sleep,
And turn and talk
Across the empty space of sheets
Left bare between our bodies now disentangled.

How easily it dissolves with a look,
There at your door,
The grainy rusting screen
A confessor’s mesh to our crimes,
The voices seeping through
Speak, if at all,
Of rain.