A wall of water in the dark pours
loosely on a runway or a road – so much
released, it isn’t obvious that here’s a man
until he nears.
Three floodlights stop him
at the verge where he must cross,
his temples bathed in rain, his garments
steeping, shining, heavy laden.
He walks towards me, watching,
while I shift, standing my dry ground,
and though his hands declare him
luggageless, he’s charged
– as I am charged with witnessing
how he will bear the fall of water,
pass through the wall of mourning.