The rain falls, stirring clouds from the dust, spattering window and street. Mud or gutter, river or drizzle or deluge, it is always the same. The appetite cracked into the earth, the thirsty dirt making its claim. Some cities die of thirst, some cities drown beneath the tide. This town can barely bother to wash. Just the hush of rain spilling through an afternoon. Just the quiet shift in seasons.
I would put it in a letter if I had a correspondent. I would write it down in birds and dusk. Staring out the window, watching the traffic glide. The spatter off the eaves, the burbling of the gutters. A stray cat or a dog between engagements. Music as it trails a car heading somewhere else. Saying nothing is busy work. Words always arrive with strings attached.
The day is condensed, like soup or riddles. The language left over from another set of stories. The tongue that lingers over incantations, the stippled secrets of another world. I empty my hands and pockets, keys and matches and moments long thought lost. Light leaves its every incandescence. The lamp in the house, the candle in the window. Aglow for this slip of a moment, then extinguished despite every shine.
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