Rain's all right. The boys who physic
through town on freights won't kick
if it comes; they often laugh then, talking
about the girl who lived down the block,
and how her hair was corn-yellow gold
that God could use for money. But rain,
like memory, can come in filthy clothes too.
The whole upstairs of space caved in that night;
as though a drunken giant had stumbled over the sky--
and all the tears in the world came through.
It was that. Like everyone hurt crying at once.
Trees bent to it, their arms a gallows for all
who had ever died in pain, or were hungry, since
the first thief turned to Christ, cursing. . .
Then, out of the rain, a girl's voice--her hand
on my arm. "Buddy, help me get this train."
Her voice was soft. . . a cigarette after coffee.
I could hear the clickdamnitclick of the wheels;
saw the headlight writng something on the rain.
Then I saw her face--its bleeding sores--I didn't
ask her if she had ever been in love
or had ever heard of Magdalen and Mary
or why she wanted to leave that town.
Do you see what I mean about the rain?