Iris

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.
We wonder if 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