The next day the weather changes.
Clouds the shade of ash and honey stretch
the strings of the sky, are echoed
in purple chords of thunder. A gusty rain
lashes the mushroom chimneys,
the satellite dishes. Our room high above
the Avenue of the Commemorations
trembles after each sizzled flash
traces its nervous network on the ceiling
of our thoughts. You laugh,
you weep. I pace the corral of an open page
that refuses to turn, the words swirl
their tumbleweed before my eyes. Who
can tell, and why? Somewhere in this city
a poet splices the penultimate line
into the masterpiece he will never write,
a magician behind a Steinway is shaking
the universe from his sleeve,
down in the street a garbled figure
stumbles into a rain-hatched archway,
a stray hound examines the air;
and you, outstaring the window, waiting
for doubt and the downpour to settle in.