Insomnia, day 12
by Chris Weagle
In the morning limbo is the suggestion of a storm,
Rice paper flutters in the draft, scratches
Against the wall like a dog wanting in.
Wind through the window screen
Rustles the newspaper on the floor.
Now is dawn but its hard color doesn’t come;
Instead the wind picks up the mustiness,
the stale room empties as the typhoon circles
And gray gets grayer, dawn grows dark and harsh
Is stalled as in an instant a fast rain breaks
The summer’s drought, and its wall of heat
Is gone in rain and thunder.
Decenber 8, 2004
