After Mark Strand
Misfortune arrives on heavy wooden wings
The chosen few can pass this night of gales
floating in the intimacy of friends and fine ideas.
While we who are confined to fixed positions
shake as if the wind might impale us on the sharp spears of our lives.
We wait behind closed windows, bolted doors,
unsure, ill at ease, feeling unprotected as rain shatters against the roof.
The light of day has faded.
The weight of night, the weight of all nights,
pales in comparison to this leaden darkness pressing against our eyes,
making the brilliant dawn unthinkable.