the rain does not fall
for teachers to explain the water cycle
not even for dogs to hide under a sheet of metal
not even for poets to talk about his poor and strange soul
the rain, I infer, has no home or exodus
no memory, no language, no moral or aesthetic sense,
The rain does not fall by mercy or by command
neither by customary physics nor by rage nor by jealousy,
I don't have lightning or thunder encyclopedias on hand.
I have no basis to explain it,
but I sense, I suspect, that it falls for all
and each of the reasons that I have denied,
like love and its covens,
where we all sing and dance for no apparent reason
with no other essence than that of falling and falling again
for the inexplicable idiosyncrasy of breaking us
gladly
drop by drop
the skeleton.