It's been sixty days Since the black sky opened up the food-gates Fell down hard on the sun-stained fair-grounds
Held back any Recollection Of the bloodshed Somehow
And now This unending rain Stopping short on the surface of the watery graves Is another, even nicer, simpler sort of silence these days
Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague
This is what he wrote in the ripped-up note I've become something even less than a ghost Even more of a though, I've become a mirage I'm the shaky air encircling the flickering flame I'm the white wall swallowing the window frame
