If night is a complete train and men and women merely layers of clay and rain incited to stay that way and say it in this, then a hard rain must disintegrate the blustering quatrains of me's and you's approaching asymptotically toward goose eggs. It is the maiden voyage of thinking that is made an end unthinkingly by making it happen in this way out of all flush and prospering facts. Now I am the Quattrocento, but then I was a figment in search of a Coltrane; something to scrape against knowledge as a foothold on a sleeveless quay. The eye slits its own equinox and the clouds can't see or be seen. Difficulty is the substance of its own etiology. Beyond possessives, I blurt out something in ink and the smoke comes to trail in the entrails of what is produced by the sudden removal of the vernacular. Leaves falling for gravity as if in love. This is the antiquarian expertise of before. Janus-faced vocation. These are the symptoms of a method which closes itself off from a new window. Opening the frame within the window, the flower of information is interrupted in the process of forming itself. A hard rain, cold rain, quart of rain, of what and water. Turning the overdeterminations over and over in your head, that is not a bed but a place where sleep is fractured when all is fled undone. And when all is said and done we would perhaps prefer to read their faces rather than face their readings.