Because so much consequential thinking
happens in the rain. A steady mist
to recall departures, a bitter downpour

The light of the moment becoming a memory—
that was their subject: as if the present
could be haunted by its own nostalgia.

would you mind very much if I came home with you?
Yes, mother, we’ll go home now.

But in a poem we can do anything we want.
Look how easy it is to add on rooms, to multiply

tonight I was reminded of our house in England,
the little record player that always skipped.
Our dozen records seemed such a luxury, although

Sitting down, unfolding
the paper, without looking
you raise the light toward the pipe.