In the Street

This is the poem that started it all, really.

I wrote it in my grade twelve writers craft class, and this was probably the first piece written that year that seemed ... real. This was a real poem.


In the Street

It’s raining in the streets
turning butter lamplight to blurs
of vibrancy in my sight
and I pull you out there with me.

I stand
arms wide
head back
letting it pour on me.

Torrents stream down my body
rivers carve my flesh
my shirt now pressed to my skin.

Cold rain splatters my cheeks
and makes my eyelashes stick in triangles

as I feel the sky drop down
on me
and you
in the street.