I sit by the window, decide to find the path to peace through rain. It falls clear to clear against the glass like an erosion of ideas, its rhythms roll like long brush strokes down the spine of a mud eyed hound. Beside a fire place the weather's dreamy impotence promises a level of acceptance that we've hungered though never really touched. But peace from rain is hard, like the men who try to understand.... attempting honesty (with little success). Read a book about the end of the world mass murder & new age carpentry. *** The rain in Sydney is a violation. We expect anything else. Papers promise men are changing - La Niña gusting over our feeble branched preconceptions - we know it as we sit around sharing wine/ talk testicle checkups, safe sex & DV. Learnt issues like painted clothes on an ape we dissolve in the first shower/ a cloudburst to wash away our training & fear torrents whipped up by southerly pasts remove even the minute pigments that remain. Arab music next door, muffled insinuation to the swirling blood/ veils drop in a rain soaked mind. Then it's men against the weather again - pumps & levy banks plumber v leak. A hand flashed through clouds & fogged up glass.