It’s raining,

So I drive

through the streets and

in windows and doorways

I see agents of death

working to pursue me.

I drive and

I want to go home

but to stop would admit them

to forestall would hasten them

It rains and

each drop hitting the window

is blown apart.

a million pieces all heeding

my passage,

telling them
	(it can only be them)

where I have been.

where do I go?

where can I go?

home.

stop.