Courage and fear, those alternating currents. Like whips of lightning that stripe sheets of rain, the boom of close-by thunder. A rattly noise on all the roofs and windows: and we realize it’s hailing— I imagine chunks of ice like dice rolled in a cup, bouncing on the pavement, into the ditch lined with weeds. It’s hard to see on the road, through rain’s white noise and the Friday evening rush: everyone wants to get home, to flee to somewhere dry and dim, backlit by tea lights and amber-colored bottles of beer. Somewhere, a siren. A police car flashes its emergency lights every few seconds, steering motorists away from the flooded underpass. Umbrellas are no match for the wind. Secretaries from the engineering building wade into the flooded street, their high-heeled sandals tucked into their lunch bags. Be careful, someone yells out a window. Are you almost here? texts my friend. It may take a while, I say. We’ll get there when we get there. Nothing to do but ride this out, observe: we’re here, we’re here, still here.
In response to small stone (103).
RESOLVE
It is never over until we decide to stop.
That tired lady pleaded to magistrates
that her fight is at an end. End it. 30.
What is writing 30 on a breaking news
Except that that’s how much is known
At this time. There must be something
More behind a story, something before it
To fret about, laugh about, cherish dearly.
Is it foolhardy to consider all dimensions?
We are strong dreams throbbing on loins
Even before we are ready for wounding
In a place not of our making. We suffer.
But what of it? The storm is here. Here
We are; we ride it out because we are still
Here. We are still but not stronger. There.
—Albert B. Casuga
06-24-12