Nocturne

 

The rising storm is part of me 

and then foreign–

some kind of language.

 

I open the door, snow comes, sidelong, hard, 

like thoughts at the end of life.

Do you know? I start to laugh. 

 

Grandfather died, 

left his house 

filled with dynamite 

and instructions–

tell the police it’s old and unstable.

 

Inside a man, one vault after another, 

and what with the snow,

you leave things behind.