When hurricanes kiss the northeast
in September, making New England
warmer than it’s supposed to be—
I love this, the way John Keats loved poetry.
Warmth and love, the refinement of verse,
these had no trouble finding my soul,
or did my soul already contain these?
It is like the wind, which is more,
and yet less, than air; do I breathe air
when whatever it is, is stopping there?
Breeze inside of breeze, as if
the weather already existed. A breeze
picks up from the south; we predict,
we predict, we predict.
We are not surprised. We are not surprised.
We are not surprised.
The hurricane makes sure our ears have no eyes.