He was in town. Town’s good. Even though the road between us gurgles like a heavy humidifier. “He wasn’t in town with you?” Memory, there’s a clue. I loved him then, even though I knew better. I loved him more, even more than the weather. Gravity fails us all. Our senses are stuck to the wall. What came first wasn’t even a letter.
In blue cramped spaces Mother gives birth with no assistance. The child immediately dreams of a blockchain tomorrow. Serrated rain falls like hurricane pills rejected by heaven. He said he could’ve washed over and by now I guess he has. If only we all just fell like the rain. Or with it. Or because of it.
Earliest morning. A train calls in the distance. Dim light reflects off water. The sound of geese in the sunrise of our tangled hair.
The Writing of John B. Randall 