Island Storm

Wind-and possessions we know

As safe, bottles, pots on shelves in trouble,

The marble Cupids near the backdoor screen,

We wonder where these will end

Flat on their backs in the next state,

Hearing rain pick our crackling roof.

All morning the middle of the island

Is the wind's pit. In the distance:

Pebbles, tons of sand, cold dunes move;

Firs-in a kind of Swedish drill-stutter

And vanish. Then, fathomy haze-

Unlit images from a faulty projector.

Hour after hour we learn

To tilt so well we hardly brace.

Under noon-pour the walls run sweat.

The half-sun veiled and hurtling down,

A shutter leaves like a canvas-wing.

What's the use to ask why the test?

The house aches and creaks into the night.

Drowning in quilts, we flex like fish;

Eyes shine: like fans close and open;

"More of the same," cries the scratchy wireless

And we turn to love, remembering:

On such a night we lost Atlantis.