Nightrain

Nightrain
after Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days
We missed the sunset
and now we are lying in this bed
the lights off
everything closed in darkness
marking the death of day
of wakefulness, obscuring
the colors of the world.
I notice the rain tendering the leaves—
dropping sometimes in needles
light and slender, sometimes
like paint splotching a tarp, rotund,
worldly. Drops fall in disheveled time
taps and clicks syncopated
against an absent beat, like afterwards
your fingertips padding up and down
my shiplap ribs, angling along the eaves
of my shoulder blades.
It is still dark, but now in the rain
I am thinking not of death, but life,
the blood and bone of it
the layers of infinitude
words and deeds stacked
in towers swaying with the weight
of overlapping wills.
The time I shape takes form in contours
mine and ours.
The rain left a moment ago.
I miss it.
Now, you are sleeping
your breath lolling
in the cave inside you.
It is still and cool there
and it should always be
this way, in the night
in the quiet of your breath.
Now the rain returns, another wisp
passing on the outskirts of a storm.
It sounds like the rain before
but not the same. It is the refrain
of that rain, forever changed by leaving
and coming back, a rain made wise
from experience, a rain made good
in its time.