he comes home for the last time

as a hurricane shrugs its force

against the shore, and when the

plane lands and he hails his ride

down the familiar highways, he opens

his window to the onrush of humid

waiting, the air electric with lightning,

the barometric pressure a warning system

ingrained, instinct. there has been enough

instinct. he banishes the rhythms. he will

be wholly conscious now.

he comes home for the last time

and at night when the thunder

breaks, he reaches beneath his bed, blind

desperate his finger grasping only air, hot

thick woolen wrap of air even here, inside

his strong modern walls and when he wakes

the lurid hiss outside his window flashes, breaks,

rolls in a roil of charged weather.

Nothing more.