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.