On rainy nights the streets
are twice as bright. Light runs
in rivulets down pavements, streams
along gutters, swirling into storm drains, drips
from balconies and falls, dimpling

(This is really only a true observation where there are streets with cars and street lights. Out here in the middle of nowhere, it seems to have been raining constantly for as long as I can remember, and there are no such cheerful lights to be mirrored and multiplied. Country living does, of course, have other compensations, but at the moment my mind is too waterlogged to think of them.)

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

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