CODA OF RAIN

The sea thistle later this year than last—a reminder of how summer can stall—free falling cold and rain—falling in strings of days longer than could be accounted for—standing there by the rusted gutter in back—wondering about it all.

Daylight falls missing; its light tipping somewhere else, like Mongolia or Australia–away from us, so subtly. Track the increments; measure the sundial for tomorrow’s tomorrow [if a surfeit of energy or time]—when the sun glare will shock the eyes once again, even under sunglasses—while you fetch the mail or the dog while avoiding the chitchat of neighbors.

Account carefully for everything missing: the car rental and safety deposit key, the left strap of your favorite sandals, the prescription renewed the day before last, the dog’s heart worm pills, the second half of the manuscript, the shutters for the luminous storm.

Sweep the china and glass dropped during lightning—into the treasure chest of useless pieces [that could cut–if stepped on or handled improperly]–charting the negative space around confidence, resolve, beliefs [that everything does not matter equally; that everything gets better].

People will still suffer in beautiful patina Houses [cages] that rust in the rain. They dig out  so savagely—out of the elaborate labyrinths of their own melancholies.

Write this hour– in the Dictionary of Sadness, Handbook for Fatigue, Diary of Mercurial Wanderings–the Notebook of Promises to Oneself, Notebook of Modified Contingencies, Notebook of Intensities, Coda of Rain.

Chart with the most reliable instruments of travel–how long until the hour erases itself, the summer rain evaporates, all the keys go missing from the piano, the dog stops chasing its tail?

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