The sky replied with rain—the wet, unfair world!—
then pure movement: four limbs rising,
veins in the darkness, passage of thought, cloud
opening. What you say? What came rippling
after rejection, through the night?
There he stood, red-haired before me
with a crown of cold waves and whiffs
of lake-weed. There for the taking.
Crowning me said You're mine. Speak your mind.
By morning the director called. I was chosen.