We Kneel Before the Sky
Rain slants harder against the window
now in wintertime, trying to worm inside
find your parka perched on a nail
like an empty sleeve might point to a bird
or vacant boots Charleston out the door.
In the spaces between good night
and good morning, your face reappears
dissolves, comes back
exactly the way our bare porch bulb
jittered off and on in the year of
constant rain.
Sudden silence—the storm must
have found our one cracked window
and you standing by, hoping
for a little blue to fly toward.
Sky wins again.
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