The sky�s no shield. The rain, softly falling, feigns indifference.
I wake on Laurel Avenue taking my 1000th step of the morning.
The trees are all crooked oaks someone planted once, thoughtfully.
My steps on the battered sidewalk lead away from Anais Nin. She
was a word who claimed the word love was the finest, the most learned of
implausibilities. She never knew she didn�t know. She would have liked
Cocteau to sketch me leisurely at this moment, with thoughts over-
examined. The neighbourhood would not have gossiped because
no one would have noticed. The picture would have been lewd enough
for framing, good enough to tape to a fridge. The birds hop hop
in the grass that beards the cement I slap down on, heels squeaking.
Anais liked crucial things, rice paper fans & birdsong. As I�m turning
the corner hatless, the rain starts falling in earnest, the rain & the specter
of Henry Miller tanning in the buff on the California Coast. Nin is in the
phone booth up the block, arranging transportation & a tryst. I am going
grocery shopping. I will buy peaches & onions to be eaten separately.
The whole dripping trip will take no more than one vast hour
of sponge time blandly indicating. There�s sleep & itchy
water in my shoe. The sky�s no mirror.



�2007 by Lisa Gordon