in the voice of whom it is for

i walked in the rain
i walked in the rain thinking
of all the glass symbolism
it had as a device in hundreds of
years of literature

i walked in the rain
i walked
in the rain and hoped
all its baptismal qualities
were real and concrete
and powerful enough
on these sin stained parts

i felt the textures of feminism
as it soaked through my hair
runnin as electicity in lines
of least resistance
over my skin

i hated the wind
for a moment

the rain was my tears and yours
and the tears of children
and parents and grandparents
of refugees
and of soldiers in green khaki

i wondered if there was anything
if there was anything left at all
left for this rain to wash out
i had already washed it all out
bleached my hands
killed the ghosts of stains

then
when the rain was all thought out
when the rain was all thought out
i knelt
i knelt in a gazebo
the gazebo at the end of the rain

and there in the gazebo at the end of the rain
when the rain was all thought out

there in the halo of three cities
in the image of a horizon and the mark of man
set against creation

the world was finally a prayer
i was a raindrop
forming about the dust of it