Boundary Lines

The clouds have moved on to a different town

but the ceiling is keeping the rain.

It’s a rhythmic, heavy, insistent sound

hitting the quilt like a stain.

It’s yellow and jagged, a salt-crusted map

of a country I’ll never reach.

I’m caught in the middle of a midday nap

and a lesson I didn't want to teach

myself. You can’t just wait for the sun

to fix what the plaster has swallowed.

The leaking starts when the storm is done

and the hollows are finally followed.