Locked up tight
inside every single—
tiny drop
of grey rain
clinging to your windowpane—
are lots
and lots
of—islands
of completely
empty space;
but wait—that
is
not the
strange part—for silence,
that great
and profoundly
immeasurable thing—is somehow also circumscribing
each of their boundless contents
entirely,
though not
in space—but
time.
It's as if—sure as
a thing like
everlasting rain
can yet get stuck
in a few lines
of poetry;
infinity—
still
leaves plenty
of room—for eternity.
