I'll explain

This is a different kind of rain.
This rain wakes dreams,
turns them over on its tongue.
 
This rain tilts the world on its axis,
it pelts sideways
like a long glance of night,
knocking her off balance.
She compensates by tipping her head
reading at great speed
the titles along the bookcases,
as if the rain will erase them.
 
It is the dead of night.
She searches every book,
runs her finger down their spines,
pulls paperbacks from the backs of shelves,
prises them open as if they were clams
and she had the hands of a fisherman.
 
They give up their words willingly
but they are not the right words,
she wants the ones written in blue ink
on the top right tip of the title page:
the ones that carry the weight of water.