NATHANIEL HAGTHORP'S BURDENI know what you're thinking: You think I'm going to make a subtle comparison between the rain and the secret places in my heart. But when I think about it, I realize there is no comparison at all. The rain remains, but the heart is simply a pulsing membrane of chambers and blood, an inconstant muscle with a limited future. The rain, though, will never stop. It continues even now, these sheets of water cleansing away all light, leaving darkness and the gentle splatters of rain against the window.
Can you hear it, these pattering drops that seem to smear all sound and vision? If you caress the window with lips and tongue, as I am doing now, it is almost like touching the cold rain, the wet moisture of skin on glass that feels like the pulse of blood.
Sometimes I
