| if a howl runs through you | like a gale from heaven |
| open all the windows | let the weather in to rifle |
| all the pages of disaster | push the glass in with its pressure |
| there’s an errant bird battering | confusion in the hallway |
| while a whirlwind’s teeth chatter | bluntly in the bottom drawer |
| picking through your clothing | and browsing through your journals |
| all of this is love or something | very like it, very bitter |
| like a squall of rain or better | like a gust of hail come knocking |
| at the door, or door-bell pressing | sudden shadows into sunlight |
| as if a cloud poured through the window | or a storm camped in the bedroom |
| and everything is touched by it | turned over and examined |
| judged and adjudicated | as a cyclone judges houses |
| as a hurricane hugs a shelter | as the aftermath of love is |
| brutal as the weather and | warm as sun come shining |
| through the holes in roof and curtains | as nothing that you’ve made |
| or placed or built or painted | or bought or decorated |
| can avoid its touch forever | its acquisitive investigation |
| the rain will press its desperation | its damp fingerprints into everything |
| that you thought to keep from exposure | when the winds of her come calling |
When the Weather
•
