Rain. I can't sleep and it rains, and I sit up on the downstairs couch, trembling in cold and fear. If every sentence includes the word "rain" what will happen and what will not happen.
When she wrote two years ago I did not reply, did not answer any of her questions. Wrecks on the floor of Lake Champlain.
What pushes, what probes, what promises.
Sitting up praying. Sitting up and letting love be love.
What mercy is.
The rain deepens - something chordal, something entangled - and nothing about sleep is made clear or possible.
The cold iron of unused stoves, Vermont Castings filled with rotting ash.
Bat dung. The second hand. Gladioli.
Briefly in Rome, crowds bearing me through hot sun towards the Vatican. Yet there were no rooms, no sense of where to sleep, and my arms hurt lugging my guitar.
Looking back at myself shopping for groceries in the early nineties, seeing nothing.
At last hunger overruns the interior CPU and briefly I am unafraid, briefly I am taken into a safer heart for saving.