Now rain is irregular at the windows
freezing on the pear tree like early blossoms
inevitably somewhere a car engine strikes its music - crescendo - decrescendo -
and i want to explain everything: why rain makes me nervous at night
why my words don't ring true on rereading
why i want to escape, or remain

these reasons are fleeting
and when i've said them they seem incomplete - like they are spinning themselves
so i leave them for after

and try to imagine a better way to say complex things, like that the branches of pear I know are new and green seem as dark as the branches which are established,

or a rush of warmth that comes of touching, before there's been time to evaluate plans, or desires, or conscience. Or some simple thing like one rain drop hitting glass with a note which might be G and disappears so quickly

until I stop imagining and listen

what words then

is silence life or death