The Lady in the Water Collection Department

It is raining in her room, rain has all
her notes, all her bills. Rain is almost
free as it comes through the roof,
unmeasured, unpurified. Someday she will
control all the rain. Now it is enough
to collect for water, stored water,
treated water.
At night she dreams water into sheets
and walls, water inside her watch, her rings
dissolving in water. Her hair is always
straight, always wet as if she is forever
ascending from some invisible lake. Almost
awake, almost drowning.
If her lover comes, he is very late. Riding
on a train without dimensions, clear as glass,
he finally arrives and undresses. He has
a blue clarity: he shines in the half-light.
When finally she reaches up, he slips easily
through her fingers, leaving her as much
alone as ever, looking down at the flooding
streets, water crowding the staircase
beneath her window,
her name spelled out by luminous fish.