She's pulled her bra tight, it'll warm her like a long walk. The lilac wants to spread, the pattern to be repeated. I'm a man. What I like about things is their slowness, the way water boils over, the difference between birches when they sway up and down like you, and pines. He flees the rain in under roofs, her rage out into the rain.
Roofs do the drumming.
He walks through the rooms one at a time. He doesn't get sad right away. That takes time. Like a good book that you put aside with that gesture of impatience or boredom, so life stops when the world plunges headlong through the tail of a dragon. It's no use talking with the wind arguing with the waters asking the trees, answering the grass.