“I took a room in Five Days of Rain Street”
he wrote. “Quite near to the river.”
The days intervened with their patterns,
and with their hinting at patterns and
their apparent lack of patterns. “I began waiting for her.”

Why all the time this autumn do I have such an
ominous feeling? On a certain evening,
he seemed to experience a similar unease.
“Like a town in the shadow of a dam under construction.
Walking down streets which, quite soon, you know will be
flooded, submerged, and all their life re-located.”
He was frightened she wouldn’t come.
“In which case, one kind of life will end,”
he wrote. “My kind of life.”

He was in love, of course —
metaphors came very easily to him,
and his environment grew shy and sensitive,
tender as young rabbits, poised like a dragonfly just this moment
alighting on the edge of a reed. Objects glowed with numen.
“I gave up my place in the queue for heaven,”
he wrote, “and walked back to earth,
and called this my poems.”

The space between two human beings
is as immeasurable as the space between two sentences.
Nothing is settled: we are not that kind of landscape.
“Still no word. That’s not good, but not
entirely bad, either. The moon as I walked back from the station
was at the full. You’re still beautiful,
I told the moon, with a hint of warning.
Yes, yes, still beautiful.”

I have nothing to lose, or only this
repeated immersion in the luminous void,
crossed by smoke and a sound of trains, between us.
On another day, I might glimpse the fire;
I might board as a passenger.
He was sometimes priggish and superior,
as the young often are in love.
“I look at their faces, and I wonder”
he wrote, “what it’s like to live in a world
in which everything is taken for granted?”

From the balcony of his room, he watched
as his share of life slowly passed.
His journal ends abruptly, like any moment.

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