As if the rain this minute stopped and behind the invisible strings a windowsill —its hard finish stroked, not sure the sound is dark enough, high enough —head first each raindrop ending its life next to wood to this bewildered sun this shadow in every direction tumbling outloud —again more varnish —the sill motionless from its dark stream —you can't see the oars but the brushing calms :the rocking that surrounds all water —what you hear never dries is the sun clinging —this one plank soaked in lullabies. What you hear is the darkness closing its eyes.
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