Rinse

There is beaded silver rainwater outside my window.
It is beat-beat-beating the brown painted peeling
Weathered swollen pane. These mornings before the
Beginnings of everything serve to dull the white
Throb of settling sadness spreading up from parted
Pistoning silences, born of dark failures of my dying
Selves. The rainwater is sh-sh-sliding down and I try
And trace shapes on a slice of glass framing an angry
Gray sky. Six different soaked worlds wait through
The squared view: one of the blowing tree; another
of its ancient quietly drowned trunk; another of the
Wetted grasses, bent-snap-drop, bent-snap-drop.
The other three are snapshots, water and leaf and
Wind falls, and they all move away from where they
Were, and the day does not change, and there is more
Beaded silver beat-beat-beating rainwater outside.