‘t comes down in sheets,

slithering and sliding down soaked-wet streets

it drools, drips then dribbles into puddles

and when in pots and pans it pops

with screech and scream as it boils

where after it finds peace and finally pours

The building is glossy, wet like open pores

Inside is an elder drawn up with the tea things 

Wispy ghosts drift from the old man’s brew

Evolutions of the liquid forms to breeze