A drip in the dark,
No peace of mind when
A cough tickles you
To deadly wakefulness.
If only the rain that
Drips—trickling in the
Gutter and off the roof side—
Could write letters for
Illness to read, responding
With its own drastic echo—
Maybe it could rid
The cough from lungs that
Need a break—that need
Mending, but the rain cannot
Write and the cough
Bellows deeper in the dark
Against the quiet drip
From the misty outside.