Write into the smudge in the painting where the pink lays into the green. Write into the plush of his lower lip. Write into the light pouring from the oculus above the baroque courtyard.  Write into the whippoorwill that sings each morning, bringing in the morning. The two old balloons caught in the branch outside the fourth-floor window. The sky and its gray flannel suit. Write into the person practicing scales but practicing them out of order. Write into the honey.  The story he told about the hierarchies of honeybees.  The story he told about the man mummified in honey. Write into his white hands.  Write into the smell of pomade.  Write into the smell of August, a thug of a smell. Write into each trivial but astonishing trick,  like roller-skating backwards or snipping thread with your teeth. Write into the rain. Write into its fall, knowing that the only god you can know is gravity.