It Is Raining

and a line of light is just beginning

to open the lid of the horizon.

Somebody leans out an upstairs window

and shouts, “Thanks for the beer.

Write when you get work.” A car

coughs, starts, moves down the street

avoiding the deeper puddles

stippled with rain. It passes a dog

in a doorway, his tail curled

carefully around his delicate feet.

It is raining in Coblenz and in Buda

and in Pest. It is raining

on the top and bottom of the world.

It is raining in Argentina. The bank vaults

are leaking. The German certificates

of deposit are beginning to mold.

It is raining on the gleaming seats 

of hundreds of parked bicycles.

It is raining for those who plan to go out

and for those who plan to stay in.

It is raining quietly, the rain of forever,

the rain of good-bye, the rain of tomorrow.

It is raining on horses who stand

on three feet in wet fields

and speak the language of every country.

It is raining on the mansion on the hill

with one small light from the kitchen

where the cook has a toothache and cannot sleep.

She sits playing solitaire, looking around

the empty room quickly, and cheating.

It is raining on the glistening tailings

from exhausted mines and on little

ghost towns in the mountains.

It is raining on the old house in the city

far away where we once lived another life.

It is raining wherever you are

and wherever I am and wherever

we are going and have been.

It is raining on the tombstones, on the flat

stones and the upright stones. It is raining

into the open graves that are waiting.

It is raining on history, on the battlefields

of long-lost wars

and the bronze statues of forgotten heroes.

It is raining on Alcatraz, in the fog,

where mushrooms are growing under steel bunks.

It is raining on millions of pale yellow

butterflies far out at sea, migrating

like angels from one world to another.