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
of the bloodshed
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.