To close your hands tightly is to be aware of them for once in your life. I made a fist like a dry heart. I was soaking wet.

They got on the train. They were also soaking wet. It was the end of the day, and we were going home to people we were closer to. We would gather around words and fill in patches.

It rained very hard. Our palms got wet, so we made fists. We squished fish brains and carried abalone in our pockets. We kicked sea foam into the air and dodged the spray like a dumb pantomime. We were soaking wet.

I stood there like the opposite of a hug. Everyone passed and left drops of rain on me. I was a vertical mural with biblical scenes made out of drops. The scenes eventually dried and I kept track of each vanishing figure.

The umbrellas were black. With each torrent they collapsed and folded and opened again. They covered the heads of their owners and moved urgently. They were held onto tightly, pulling against the wind, being pulled.