if as for the window opening in me
the who where something can do
that which makes awake the lesson
and listens to the footsteps in the wet
depending upon the secret language of the wind
the message and the rain opens it is just possible
to adjust the focus to a narrow beam
of contact that is perhaps possible
to read the fact that all through the house
where the floor boards give up the ghost
the beam creaking is the noon of the ceiling
a kind of put-together crack
but waiting under the roof at midnight the fact
that it is blown through the room
which peels that skin where the paint blinks
and is the naked light bulb
and is pulverized and so passing
by the long wall built to keep out the mares
the door behind the empty keyhole by the front entryway
I who close the lock hear someone walking away
I keep hearing the noises inside
tears falling which in this halfstate of consciousness
can move me and make me laugh
in the storm which you thundered
it shakes the twist of pain
which by any means cannot cause me
who can’t close my eyes
and make a dream where the hurricane
is the answer to all my prayers