When it rains so that
the radio drowns in the sky’s music,
the world is empty of all other sounds,
the sides of streets are awash in
what couldn’t help but let go,
I, too, feel myself getting washed away,
pulled by the ebb and flow of what
used to be sky.
Raindrops trace paths in my cheeks
and make waterfalls from my chin.
As clouds collect in gutters,
I submerge in what
couldn’t help but let go.
-Rory Finnegan
the radio drowns in the sky’s music,
the world is empty of all other sounds,
the sides of streets are awash in
what couldn’t help but let go,
I, too, feel myself getting washed away,
pulled by the ebb and flow of what
used to be sky.
Raindrops trace paths in my cheeks
and make waterfalls from my chin.
As clouds collect in gutters,
I submerge in what
couldn’t help but let go.
-Rory Finnegan
