Details

I watch out the window because

there is not much else, I can do this night. Outside

it is dark, and not much else. There

is not much to speak of, not much to

forget. The road outside this café window is

slow moving traffic. Start and stop. Like

life. Windows.

It is raining. Somewhere in some universe

these droplets are falling on you as you

straighten your hand and pull that

notebook

over your forehead. Four hundred years of

history versus four minutes of rain. That book

of poems. The library would not take it back. But

better it sick with a fever than you.

Something is amiss in I

remembering you. There is no coherent structure, no

beautiful whole. Too many details, which

perhaps, I remember too well.