After a Hurricane

The tide green and full in the harbour,
the contrary remaining winds stipple
the taut swell like skin after a shiver.
More rain and lightning in the forecast;
the clouds still thick and dark in the west
with a chance of thinning towards morning.
Maybe through them we’ll glimpse the slender moon
foundering at dawn—if we’re not busy
as usual ignoring each other
by then, heads turned opposite on pillows,
nothing left in our larynges but rasps
after a night of talking feelings
instead of facts. Or maybe I’ll step out
and listen to the crows grieving the moon.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Consciousness, Epistemology, Harbour, John MacKenzie, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, Summer, The Brain, The Moon, The Rain, The Sea, The Sky, The Wind and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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