This is the only time machine with a curtain:
all night and all day, blue beads of clicking rain.
A skylight amplifies the pinging of the oldest message:
you thought you forgot, but here it is again, in the rain.
Towels grow damp from moisture in the bath—
And then the air takes them, infuses them with rain.
The tongues of books lie close to each other.
No mouth remains dry from the intimacies of rain.
No one knows if the silverfish nest elsewhere, if they curl
on the ceiling’s damp surfaces through slow months of rain.
Is it worth doing laundry, fighting shirt collars’ resistance
to steam? All afternoon, the sour effluvia of rain.
In response to Via Negativa: Ennui.