Rain, you said, is silence turned up high.
It has been raining now for days.
Even when it stops
there is still the sound
of rainwater, laboring
to find some way into the ground.
We lie in grim embrace: these
two halves trying to be whole, straining
for this break in the static,
in the white noise
that was rain falling
all day and all through the sheeted night.
Silence is rain with the sound turned down,
and I stare out now on a clear view
of something left out on the line:
a life, snagged there -
- Robine Robertson