This rain that falls against the window, slicing night, pattering against the glass, the tip of the philodendron, or the baby, masking her arms, asleep, and then settling down to rest….again, and all the others sleeping, just not me; awake.

Slicing the night to ribbons, and searching effortlessly for anything better to do, or the presence of a mind with which to do it.

Slicing the night into endless ribbons of flowers wet from the rain and desperate, having a cold and needing sleep, so why awake?

Too much tea or having napped.

Lying now awake, to sleep?

This cannot last, this vast unceasing unyielding mass of endless grief.

No one believes or knows how grievous.

Yet, or perhaps I will get sleep tonight, or by some chance of mercy fall down quick into an operational and open door to night and fall down into that sweet temporary forgetfulness.