I sit in the corner. There is light somewhere, a lamp. I sit in my
chair. The whiskey bottle empty. The black dog in the doorway.
And god is man in ruins. On my desk, a notebook half filled with
bad poems. I sit in my chair, I sit in the corner. Her picture on my
desk smiles. Her letter sings on the wall. I sit in my chair and there
is a light somewhere, a lamp. We love in exile, in darkness.

In Ireland, when the sun shines on a rainy day they say the devil is
beating his wife. In England we would lie down in graveyards and
leave shapes in the snow of fallen angels and crosses. And we’d throw
snowballs like shooting stars, like suns. Throw it further, we’d say.
Throw farther the snowball, the sun. Throw the sun further. Throw
farther the sun and the holy ghost.