Charcoal sky, Thursday, a whole day of rain.
The vineyards, and the peach and apricot
orchards need it, but I sit upstairs here, not
writing or reading, feeling an oblique pain
in my shoulders, my soul, descend again –
the things I didn’t do, that it’s too late
to start, an essay, letters, I never wrote.
Tomorrow afternoon, I take the train
back to the city, where I lived, and don’t
want to live, though it was like desire
for a lover, a soul ache like ambition
for years. The most contentious conversation
is with a friend, in writing, worse, on a phone
or with myself. Breathe out. A pause. Inspire.

                                          *

Breathe out. A pause. Breathe in. Expire. Inspire.
An afternoon above weekend manifs.
...