Cold gray morning. The windows
papered over. The pale
women at rest. A man calls
about a dog, but the dog is
dead or dying or already
decayed. The man leaves with his
hands in his pockets and his
hat askew. Did he ever
have a name? Did he ever
have a face? Afterwards
only his hat remains in the
memory.

And now it rains
a hard fast and terrible
rain. The women stir and take
off their sleepy faces. Is it
time already? they ask. We had
barely begun. No, it is
not time, it is never time.
Time does not run in places
like these. Time is
not relevant while the tea
still stands and the biscuits
remain uneaten.