Gazing into the wild
and perilous mystery—of nightweather
booming outside
your windowpane
and wondering—
how even the most
how even the most
ungovernable rains
could be brought down so easily
by the weakest
and the
least well-understood
of forces—
could be brought down so easily
by the weakest
and the
least well-understood
of forces—
consider now
the meek poet brooding;
for whom
there are no certainties!
Other than those—
of course, regarding which word
at which exact
particular moment—to pelt you with,
or else miss
on purpose.
