Weathering

I kept my appointment with Rain.

We met in the wrong room. Upstairs.

Rain was… melancholy. She rinsed

a naked bulb that hung itself

on white wire. It ran out of light,

she said, spreading her fall

from the rooms unfathomed sky.

Rain enquired if I’d brought questions.

I was allowed four. Four only.

Before I could deny it, she pressed

her sodden lips to mine.

Not yet, she said. They are come.

The sash windows unlaced their gowns

so that ghost ships, dragging nets

filled with memories absolved

by R