At the end of every storm we\u2019ve grown used
\nto we feel exposed. There is too much light.
\nGone the swaths of cloud wind tore like
\nclotted bandages from the tarnished tin sky.
\nWe hear blood reverberating in our ears.
\nWe wonder if others divine our thought\u2019s
\ntempest. Aren\u2019t our minds crossed with roiling squall
\nbetter to conceal the tack of our bark?
\nSomething is over, that is enough.
\nYet wouldn\u2019t we rather it not? We\u2019re so
\nnaked when calm. When spasms abate,
\nwe\u2019re alone, seeking out pangs like old friends
\nwho suddenly are gone. Through a bright cleft
\nin the clouds sunbeams rain down upon us<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
At the end of every storm we\u2019ve 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\u2019s tempest. Aren\u2019t our minds crossed with roiling squall … <\/p>\n