Spray-painted white, a tangle of driftwood hangs from
the ceiling.
It moves when a breeze comes through the door.
Underneath, a table with pitchers of water, glasses, napkins.
Tinkle of wind-chimes in the neighbor's garden.
Foghorns cutting through the blinds.
How many people are out in a storm tonight, as waves
crest barriers and flood waters rage down boulevards?
Images flicker on my screen.
I remember a bus ride through towns in the aftermath of
volcanic eruption— courtyards half-buried in lahar,
the statues of saints spackled with mud.
Centuries after Pompeii was buried in ash, the shapes
of corpses lying side by side came to light.
Scientists determined they were a man and a child.
They had no relation to each other.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
