The rain came in the night,
washed away history’s news, but
brought something worse to torment the day
with its liquid torrent, too fluid
to pin down; or take a moment and
with logic surround. What next?
ran his dully aching mind; beat his heart.
Painful inversion of circumstance it is
when day returns and body’s rhythm
is to rise, yet fails to deign to
venture out of rooms, of doors
– and mental confines – and face
that latest looming… issue.
Thunder breaks overhead.
His eyes flash with reflection
of the lighting streaking across the skies
(of her body, waiting; naked, lithe).
So cold this bed now.
Tries not to look at the slip,
sliver of silk, still hung on the door
(or picture its smooth caress of pale skin,
here no more). Rain lashes
at the window. With a wince,
he decides: he will change
the sheets tomorrow.