Sunday May 6th (before three)


Up late under the perigree moon
and a battering storm.
The blinds are closed tightly
but lightning finds its way
as it does and will.

Castanets of hail
scatter like harsh pearls
or disorganized marbles all begging
to come in by bruising this simple
wooden blue house.

I remember being on a hillside
above a valley in France
scared but appearing not so
thirty five years ago
a drop in the bucket.

Much has happened since
torture and christenings
inventions and dissent
but the blind blunt clouds
don’t care or relent.

 

[I didn’t imagine there would be
so much rain and noise in Texas
nor that I would care at all
and I collect together the people from before
and I wonder where they are tonight.

Raw nature when it wakes
intervenes quickly across our feelings
causing us to both mark time
and remember its passing
until it fades again into sleep.]




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