When it rains on Sunday and you are alone, open to the world but no thief comes and neither drunkard nor enemy knocks at the door, when it rains on Sunday and you're deserted and can't imagine living without the body or not living since you have it, when it rains on Sunday and you're on your own, don't think of chatting with yourself. Then it's an angel who knows, and only what's above, then it's a devil who knows, and only what's below. A book is in the holding, a poem in release.