no one ever speaks of
the weather inside buildings

people pretend
they’ve come inside from weather
to no weather

they misinterpret
the sensation
of a single drop of water
landing on their skin 
from an invisible source

call it a phantom
call it imaginary
dismiss it

in fact rain happens indoors on a small scale
what you felt
was a monsoon in the break room
or spring shower in the kitchen

we are never told this when we’re young
among all the mysteries held back
this may be the greatest of all

that we cannot escape

the cool season of the closet
the mutable climate of the front hall

the terrible inevitable
that is the dark freeze
of the bedroom

Waves lifting silt and muck
from seabeds,
darkening surfaces enough
for certainty 
to become elusive
even as all is refashioned
from their endless beating
upon land.

So many mornings
I awake so exhausted
from dreaming of surfing, 
sailing, or swimming
that I cannot rouse myself 
to ride those waves 
while awake.

I tell myself
my Work is done
at night, in darkness, in sleep,
beyond light.
All I do after dawn
is recordkeeping.

Waves under sunlight, though;
there is something to be said
for how diamonds
sting from spray, how glimpses
of shadows in those waves
may spark visions
and offer other truths,

but it is not something
I have learned to say,
I cannot stay awake
long enough to learn,
and how long it may take
to become fluent in that tongue
is more uncertain than 
what shape this shore will take
when these waves at last subside. 

Forty-five
minutes lying awake
after rising briefly 
and returning to bed
where nothing happened

so I rose and
sat with water and smoke
waiting for pain to subside
for another forty-five minutes

At forty-five
I would have brushed off 
a broken night like this one
as merely a test
of the preservation
and evolution of my energy

but at fifty-nine
frozen in the living room light
wanting nothing more
than oblivion temporary or
otherwise 

it is hard to imagine
that once upon a time
twice forty-five minutes ago
I had it

as it feels like I will never
have it again

After he’d rolled 
for a full lifetime

between fear
and anger 

driving always
through shame

to try and get
to where he was going

hoping to end up
at peace

his jalopy body
finally failed

Then part of him laughed
at the possibility of dying

between the poles
without reaching

what he’d thought
would feel like home

while part of him wept 
at the same thought

But a larger part
went still and began to steel

understanding at the root
that this was home

and he could park
or wreck there

but this was where
he’d stay