He texts about the weather. Cues a domino dropped of shops, their fronts make way for prows, with navy-grey erasing chimneys and pools inches outside below gulfing the building. Never a town or a storm or a pair's friendship shown – only weaving cloud monkeys. Cocking glances at a perplexing now, mowing it or a part into a universe flow-ended. He texted if I'd seen the Capitol, so our truthy shunting grew replies, every unsociable faux-raging meridian and order of something to suffice for every place that we might call on untouched by wet indulgents, Yank screwlooses. It's a love chat born aside bars through years. Pain of a new word - internminable - makes a mind scatter to our struck standard from uncracked mouths in search under thumbs: the ribald hard-blown, the shower, the spat from him to me. From me to him in rain that is fine and quenching. For Mike.