The wind is big outside and the night rain comes
With long black fingers typewriting on the roof
Endless messages, my mind unrolls a blank of memory’s
Invisible ink, kittens of air chase through the rooms.
The wind is bouncing rubber icebergs about the years,
Billowing at doors, pelting sheaves of slivers of cold
Irretrievably at corners, slapping echo’s punching bag
While the gifted age is sitting on the rooftop in tears.
Something is being said here, something very large
Talks like a meaning through walls of house and body,
Through the prevaricating funnels of the senses; I move
From room to room on habit’s expensive rug, I emerge
In the midst of things on the next moment multiplied
To a giant of peace; with the certainty of a magnet
I take a book down, clear the table, put away an old
Letter I have put away before the turrets of outside
Took up with wind; light lies around me like a hoard
And thoughts like birds feed at the lamp-lit hand;
It has been a long way that I have come, to be here,
In this house caught in a thumping storm of the lord.
I know the wind to be making another desperate play
Hurling a solid ton of himself about, as if my house
Did not exist. It is in vain. I sit quietly or read.
I have jettisoned my heartbeats all along the way.
Leave a Reply