[A straight rain is rare...]

A straight rain is rare and doors have suspicions and I hold that names begin histories and that the last century was a cruel one. I am pretending to be a truck in Mexico. I am a woman with a long neck and a good burden and I waddle efficiently. Activity never sleeps and no tale of crumbling cliffs can be a short one. I have to shift weight favorably. Happiness can’t be settled. I brush my left knee twice, my right once, my left twice again and in that way advance. The alphabet and the cello can represent horses but I can only pretend to be a dog slurping pudding. After the 55 minutes it takes to finish my legs tremble. All is forgiven. Yesterday is going the way of tomorrow indirectly and the heat of the sun is inadequate at this depth. I see the moon. The verbs ought and can lack infinity and somewhere between 1957 when the heat of the dry sun naughtily struck me and now when my secrets combine in the new order of cold rains and night winds a lot has happened. Long phrases are made up of short phrases that bear everything “in vain” or “all in fun” “for your sake” and “step by step” precisely. I too can spring.