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 curds in the sky.
We hear blood reverberating in our ears,
wonder whether others divine our thought’s
tempest. Aren’t our minds crossed with roiling squall
better to conceal the tack of our bark?
Something 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
***
I’ve tagged this “noumenal” poem and formally similar other ones “muted sonnets”, meaning they do not sound or ring, which is what “sonnet” meant originally. They do conform to the same underlying pattern based on the ratio 4/3, belonging to an elegant set of seductive beauty. Mathematics and poetry spring from the same roots.
