While branches were lurching
against wind, I was keeping my head
underneath the rain
as she gently touched my shoulder
and whispered me something.
Her voice— I could dance it
in the spotlight of all our
private connections.

It was night and
I made myself a tea.
Through the water, in the light—
my face. And I wasn’t impressed at all.
She laughed about the shape of my head,
turning into a small orbit
along the hot water.
I had nothing more to say.
The rain continued to fall with
such a sleepy noise, digging trenches.
We needed real courage to live in them,
especially because we didn’t run away
like some war-scarred cats.

The idea of a hurricane
had a poor load—
there was just a rain which pertained to
a silly wind.
Some private connections lost themselves
in a gray haze as the weather
became my other self.