Eye

He didn't choose this thunder
just out of range, a gale unsure
if it's jeers or applause,
dense sky pooled in the yard
and raindrops, slow to begin
their race for the lip
of the window.
      The window juts out
its jaw, shuttered
against the shed's cyclops stare,
the bowed boughs of jasmine
tired of holding up for sun,
and the singing blackbird
eyeing for worms.
      He sits behind the lens
of double glazing, calculating
the eye of the storm -
whether to run into the rage
of light, or wait in silence
hoping for it to pass
and come again.



Janine Pinion

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