Mail

But then how clear are your ideas,

the mailman asked. At that moment 
the sky darkened,
but that had nothing to do with it,
that's how it goes here,
from one moment to the next.

It's going to rain, he said, 
and he was right.
Big drops. 
Behind him in the bay,
I saw an airplane heavy in the clouds,
slow. It landed.

Where do those seconds go?
How much white noise can be missed?
Which conversation can't be crushed
against the wall of time, in a lack
of memory, somewhere at the bottom
of a dream?

Fiction: a house on a hill, 
psalm of rain, page six,
mailman, descent, pathway 
into oblivion,
his, mine, 
the trimmings of time,

like someone turning a page
without reading it,

all written for nothing.