November rain falls heavy here; falling like a sack of grain tossed out of a cargo ship and onto your back; falling like the large unread volumes of poetry from my shelf. November, month of loss. The sea will grow larger with my tears, but for many years now there have been no tears. At the worst times just this empty feeling inside my ribs as if my lungs held nothing: not even air. Perhaps the feeling of sorrow holds no conviction. My sleep and yours cannot be the same and maybe these weights and measures are better left behind.