Improv: Marks' "Three Bridges"

When the rains came I was spooning salt into a pie, the neighbors bleating
through the walls, the narrow, invisible cracks. I had to leave
it there--my mother's recipe--on the oven, away from the windowsill
where no steam would drift, where it would be beaten down or swatted
into the damp clay. I swear sometimes I hear a voice in the well.
The airhorn's distant movement sweeps us up, my daughter and
her cat, my husband and his Hagar, spits us like a plug
of tobacco into a silver cup. The voice in the well says that
the rain may never stop, and I am fine with my reflection there;
it must be what death is like, an attenuated hush, a roused silence.