Today a rainstorm caught me and I still have not recovered myself with drier blankets The brown leaves blowing off the trees, squirrels and robins cheering them on, but not cheering me And anxiousness has an owl by the throat, has me pill-popped up to Heaven Hill, head spinning one hundred eighty degrees, looking to the past and the future for some news about the present which of course is useless Even I know that Mean- while, Agnes upstairs plays with Grace— the little neighbor girl—not the idea of unmerited forgiveness in light The two of them make up words to no music or to My Fictions and The Saddest Landscape Sometimes it’s hard to say which, no matter how hard I pretend to listen I am no expert at thunder and lightning I am no expert at eggbirds and ghost- typing the air to remember a song Today a rainstorm caught me up The rain came down, and it still comes down The rain comes down is all I know about how sometimes life finds me stupid on the porch with a couple of empty beer bottles, humming and waiting for god knows what, some warm weather to calm me, a few minor thoughts All these days, reasons end somewhere The water still rolls with an owl in its blood We reverberate through it very softly
"This poem is pretty mysterious to me. I literally hobbled in out of a rainstorm (I’d been running), and wrote a draft of it, trying not to drip water on my computer. Earlier that afternoon, Agnes, my seven year-old daughter, had written 'eggbirds' in something she was writing, and I'm sure that made me think about owls. The poem seems to me a writhing thing, full of weird expectancy, and 'fraidiness,' and hopefully, too, a little love."