The storm puts its lips to the house
and blows to make a sound.
I sleep restlessly, turning, reading with my eyes
closed the storm’s text
But the child’s eyes are huge in the dark
and the storm mewls for the child.
Both of them enjoy lamps that swing.
Both of them are halfway to speech.
The storm has childish hands and wings.
The caravan stampedes to the North.
And the house knows its constellation of nails,
keeping the walls in place.
The night is still across our floor
(where all the reverberated steps
rest like leaves at the bottom of a pond)
but outside the night is wild!
Across the Earth winds a more serious storm.
That storm puts its lips to our soul
and blows to make a sound. We fear
the storm will blow us void.