Rain Came.

Not tons, but it rained in a kind of lovely way, steady and light last night and showery today and now, tonight, mist and crickets and some other kind of cricket that's riding a long lower wail out across the higher-pitched ones. Or: that lower wail is the cricket closest to us, and the background noise is everybody else. Everything's perspective.

Had a young man turn in an orgasm poem today.

What I think might be prudent at a time like this is not to read too much into crickets and sex and markets and mist and rather just take what cash you've got left out there, convert it to nickels, and bury it out beyond the compost pile in the back corner of the yard. Once all this is over and we go back to poems about 2002 Jeep Wranglers and the Dow figures out what it's there for and winter sets in and the crickets come back from wherever they'll go once they go for the year, why then, we can take stock and see what it all means. For now, as I've been preaching to my classes, let's us all just stop trying so damn hard to mean anything. That such advice nets me poems with words like "shuddering" in them is no reason to think the advice itself is bad. Stop meaning. Start shuddering. Tomorrow's forecast: Just like today, or different. One of those for sure.