The French Revolution vanishes
into rain.

The cafe where Camille Desmoulins
jumped atop the table and roared is closed.

So too the one grocery store
in the Adirondack town.

Three years fade
into centuries of raised voices.

When I think “of my childhood”
what am I thinking?

Spiro Agnew’s widow died.
Everything a function
of stochastic patterns
this rain also obeys.

Can’t you hear it the unpitched wave soaking the spruce?

Can’t you hear them screaming?
Morton Feldman said
pointing below the Berlin pavement stones.

One deafens to live
till you’re deafened to all.

I’m canceling all the noise
my earthened ears bring me.