We don't have long,
this darkness and I,
this aloneness
with the rain slick under the car tires.
Already the day, and it's doubts
creep toward the sill and
the kettle whistles it's song into the emptiness.
Somewhere else
I am writing without pause,
I am writing the length and depth of this body,
of this life,
it contains multitudes
and they are being counted.
