By Christl Call-Cook
The rain at the window is a woman. She is mute, jealous of the foghorn. Her fingers dissolve and bead down the glass. She coats us in grey like wet, bat-wing skin The town and its one long street. Out there through sodden leaves walks a boy in short sleeves. He curves his long body, stuffing himself bit by bit into his pockets. One sailboat, sails bound like cautious mouths, churns past the bouy's warning lights, slipping out of the harbor's rusting cul de sac.
