Outside the world is melting and pooling and rippling.
I see it through a spotted wire screen
on the other side of the glass in a window-frame.
The outer walls are streaming and running cold between the cracks,
fissures in brick and mortar to form rushing rivulets in grass
and run quietly to secret-silent places downhill.
A thousand million E.E. Cummings hands
are drumming in small splashes somewhere up above my head.
Companions meet eyes against the rain as enemies' glances are washed away
by warm and trickling feelings of closeness.
Voices are softened to deeply reverberating music,
out of the ears and into the heart.
Quiet, warm communion of hands in the rain.