It's raining,
and I expect you will leave.
Your trouble broods and blooms,
black as brows that knit and twitch.
The dark low sky is heavy,
pregnant
with worry and wonder,
filled to the skins with a nameless regret,
taut and slowly seeping...
Then
silent, swift,
a jagged scar of white
and grim horizon,
stark dank city's toothy beartrap maw
and sludging drizzle plink.

And still,
no awful thunder rings.
And You,
have not yet gathered up
your things.

11/16/2009

Posted on 11/17/2009
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