I am restless among the still things of this world.
None move as I do, see the world and tell it that it is alive,
none bear me as I bear them
and, though moved, are as I found them; intact,
like chess pieces impervious to the game.
I can’t even feel the sense of abandonment, disappointment,
I realize they were never what I thought they were,
were never more than I am (and in most ways less)
here, for a time, then gone
with little or nothing to show for their stillness.
They can not hide either.
If I’m irrational among integers I can’t be counted and set aside.
I’m not among your dead things,
not for a while, yet,
count me then, when I can not argue.
I’ll be rain on your rooftop noisy and your walls will keep me out.
When the sun comes around again it will be like I never was.
Warm, dry and still,
you are asleep among the dead things of the world that comfort you.
You’ll find comfort in me someday when I can not argue.
Until then, I’ll wash the earth from caskets.
I’ll make you look at corpses.
You’ll hate me and it will be like I never was.
You’ll realize you are rain on my rooftop
and I am asleep among the dead things of the world
that comfort you when they do not argue