They raise their fists. Inside, I fall asleep to the sound of rain

The dumpster diver

and the plastic smoker

raised their fists. I was

in the solemn, trapped

by the sound of birds

dying on the grass, I

was entertained and

irritant. I was not changed

by the sound skin and

bones make when they hit the sky—

I was asleep, dreaming

of the rain: you fell

invisibly, and you washed

the wound on the grass

like god's loudest hose

as we sat and chewed

loudly, on our tongues (forgive us),

in invisible estates, undreaming

and muffled. All was silent then

the way all is silent when we speak.

I was trapped by the sound of

the birds as a thousand voices

ungathered and amputated

found their way to a corner

where the rain was the rain and

not the sound of dust

washing away.

Raian Abedin is a poet, a student of Biochemistry, and a contributor for The Daily Star.