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Outside, in the sodden dark, the maples
rustle in a switchback wind.
I lie alone, restless and ungrateful,
too aware of my skin,
hot and cold, hot and cold, legs tangled
in the humid sheets. Into the room,
austere as plainsong, drifts an angle
of street-shadow, quivering blue on blue.
All night, the storm rattles on vents and panes,
on slow cars sluicing up the narrow hill,
their headlights painting streaks of rain
on my pale window, and still
the torrent comes faster, faster—bluster, leak,
and squall. Frame shakes, glass moans.
How dim my heartbeat feels, how meek.
Once, I lined the sill with stones
stolen from the sea.
Washed up. Washed down. Debris.
Copyright 2021 Dawn Potter.
Dawn Potter’s many books include Chestnut Ridge (Deerbrook, 2019). She directs the Frost Place Conference on Poetry and Teaching, held each summer at Robert Frost’s home in Franconia, New Hampshire.