All night I am held in the sound
of constant thunder, inverted arcs
of lightning over the hills
outside my window. There is no
chance of dreaming tonight,
the air is so heavy
that sleep is pressed from me.
The rain flushes insects
from the wall, they must feel
that same heaviness and come out
looking for relief. In the dark
I sit with the flashing light
like the lights that enter the dark
compartments of trains as they wind
through landscapes at night.
There is something in all this show
of energy that remains static,
that is still and wants only to witness
the passing night, the passing storm,
the flow of insects out of the wall,
the anger of dreams not held in sleep,
myself sitting upright in the damp bed
listening, watching the odd shadows
drift on the walls and ceiling of the room,
drift slowly, climbing away from me
for something. When I get up there is
nothing more to see in the darkness.
I walk outside.
The rain has stopped
and already the morning
sun is soaking up the messiness of night,
moving boldly into the sky,
claiming everything
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