Often endless at night. Pitter-patters, soft on 
sills, remembered in its vertical obscuring of 
 
morning windows. How it's not meant to be seen past. 
Or the droplet suspended at the tip of an eave, 
 
under its wing you stood idle. And its inevitable 
lick on your neck if you leave. I have woken up with fingertips, 
 
not wet, but 溼 sap1 - how water blankets the earth 
in its countless threads. Beads that spider-leg from the skies 
 
and crisscross into the traffic. Slide off shoulders 
to grey the concrete, and trace into the cracks 
 
to reach the roots. Just to say I can still touch you. Again
and again. Pavement dries with grimy footprints, 

each pair walking farther and farther away.