At the end of every storm we’ve
grown used to we feel exposed.
There is too much light. Gone
the swaths of cloud the wind tore
like clotted bandages from the sky.
At such moments we hear blood
coursing in our ears. We fear others
divine the tempest in our thoughts.
Are not our minds crossed with squall
better to conceal the course of our bark?
Something is over, that is enough.
But wouldn’t we rather it not?
We are so naked when calm.
When spasms abate, we’re alone.
We greet pangs like old friends,
losing ourselves in their clamour.
Then suddenly they are gone.
Through a cleft in the clouds
warm sunbeams rain upon us.
2
At the end of every storm we’ve grown used
to we feel exposed. There is too much light.
Gone the swaths of cloud wind tore like
clotted bandages from the tarnished tin sky.
We hear blood reverberating in our ears,
wonder whether others divine our thought’s
tempest. Aren’t our minds crossed with roiling
squal the better to conceal the tack of our bark?
Seeomething is over,. That is enough.
Yet wouldn’t we rather it not? We’re so
naked when calm. When spasms abate,
we’re alone, seeking out pangs like old friends
who suddenly are gone. Through a bright cleft
in the clouds sunbeams rain down upon us.