What are they telling me that I cannot
hear, see only the sun appearing to set  
on the wrong side of the house as if the
earth has shifted since I took my nap and woke
up groggy, thinking of you.  Lightning is
in the picture, for the sky is not supposed
to be that yellow, with such drama in
the clouds above.  No wonder the reflection
of a reflection comes from the north to
ignite the yard as if it's the dawn of the
Second Coming, my bed sheets upstairs turned
to a funnel cloud I resisted to come
to the back step to look as you cross the
grass as if from a new direction, your face
to the ground, unable to witness such
temporary splendor.  I understand none
of this is here.  You're as invisible
as this light should be, protected spectrum the
living cannot bear for beauty.  I might
still be in my bed after all, waiting for
the storm that swirls around us like a wall
of wind, only a thunderclap away.