“listen to me as one listens to the rain,the years go by, the moments return,do you hear the footsteps in the next room?not here, not there: you hear themin another time that is now,listen to the footsteps of time,inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,listen to the rain running over the terrace,the night is now more night in the grove,lightning has nestled among the leaves,a restless garden adrift-go in,your shadow covers this page.”

“...you are you and your body of steam,you and your face of night,you and your hair, unhurried lightning,you cross the street and enter my forehead,footsteps of water across my eyes,listen to me as one listens to the rain”

“Now you listen here, mister,” I said, trying for a more adult tone. “I’m not going to spend every night listening to you try to crash you girl’s head through my wall with the force of your dick alone!”

“And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?”

“He left soon afterwards, leaving her alone in the dark room, illuminated time to time by shocking leaps of heat lightning, and she thought, now it will rain, and it never did, and she thought, now he will come, and he never did. She lighted cigarettes, letting them die between her lips, and the hours, thorned, crucifying, waited with her, and listened as she listened: but he was not coming.”

“At two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and listen,You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun.And the trees in the Shadow rustle and the trees in the moonlight glisten,And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is done.”