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| window: outside is storm like a movie set, the tarmac dreaming, rain-wave patterns picked up from sounds like hail on the hollow heads of walkers in their sleep, watched by the moon-white nightgown girl in windowed corner room on second story.� you know those little balls on sing along tapes for television, telling you what words to say.� she had a funny thought.� that the hail was bouncing off the street, tree branches, benches, just like that, to tell her what to sing.� the night landing itself small town lyrical out there.�� she got out her guitar, sang herself a lullaby. | ||