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.