There's a storm in the forecast.
There are ideas, and then
there are things. My sadness says—
I am not concerned; I am contented
looking at old postcard photographs
of lilacs on Mackinac Island.
There's a storm on the way.
The windowpane is foggy and quivering
like a kid's lower lip. My lack of belief
regards the horizon and
states flatly—I am not mad, I am
simply unwilling to talk about it.
There's a storm raging outside.
Buckets of rain gush down.
My incredulity is staring
out the window, slack-jawed
at this spontaneous abandon
of prudence and caution.
After a while, my confusion
asserts itself, professing its
now-incontestable feeling
that a better place than this
must finally exist.
