I'm Reading

I’m reading the biography of raindrops illuminated past 3 AM by the monk

streetlight through my friend’s living room window. How the lantern inside the drops

translates now - sleeping on someone else’s couch at fifty - into an ancient wonder. 

How it words this first night of homelessness into Christmas when I was six. 

Memories are a liquid wall of shimmer on the verge of streets.

It looks like Christmas Eve.

In the light inside of rain, in the glow part of the sound of it.

For a second I am who I used to be. 

Light can make a sweet dream of homelessness

for a second. Sugarplums. 

And I’m loved again.

And feel what it must be like.

I don’t remember it.

.