[1] The passing storm had knocked Over an oak on the power lines.

So here we are, with pen and paper, With breath and word, with each other, Bone racked and marooned in a pool Of candlelight. Write. Write to

Remember the others who have kept Watch over the stations of the night, Stations through which desire keeps Steaming in and out, rarely carrying Us out, intact, into the hours of light.

Attempt baby-sleep. Attempt monk-prayer. Attempt a philosopher’s knowing grimace. No. None of these would help except that Which is not permitted to living. Death.

[2] The candlewick is soon swamped In its mutable wax. It dips its head. A smoky light, and then nearly goes Dark as if it were road-kill whimpering, Waiting to be put out of its misery.

Soon however a breach in the thinned Crater, at whose center the shrouded flame Continued to breathe. Then tears that Harden even as they drip and pool.

Resurrection follows. The wick stands again, The comb of a rooster rising from a shortened Neck, and crowing in the dark. You, restored to Vision, attempt to write down what it has to say

July 11. 2005 Hurricane Dennis passing overhead