Whenever—I
take
time out
of the equation—all the problematic
numbers
and letters
I carry—start
looking
more like still photographs—
of rain—
beaded-
up
cool
and clear and
clinging
tight to the potato-
brown nodules
of bare tree branches—that is,
less urgent,
because
of course they're not
going anywhere;
but also
so much more
worthy of my attention,
because
in real
life, they're obvious-
ly not going—
to hang
around forever
either.
