Now, there is a girl in need of rain
- dirt in her fingernails, spray in her hair,
a basement-creature in wait,
an interminable twitching of clock hands and human feet.
- watching dustmotes
as though trainspotting,
learning Italian at night
and tearing chunks off discounted loaves.
- her windows are unwashed;
tomorrows tend to be hazy, retreating humbly
into the sink-ful of coffeespoons.
- she turns a page, not quite understanding
in the flickering incandescence - the rain
speaks louder than she does, and it is a dim light indeed
which slowly blurs her into the room.