Wednesday, April 29, 2020


Desperate for comfort,
bereft of all certitude, if one
or two are soon compelled

to leave their dry houses
in the middle of the
storm, so what?

Amid the white noise
of rain, perhaps, and
watching the haunted maw of sky

as it rips open wide
with forked
tongues of warm lightning,

these abstract few
might find themselves
compelled to count the seconds

waiting for the illimitable voice
of thunder to rejoin—as if
growing by increments

closer to the answer,
and farther away from blind
faith in explanations.