Shape and Substance

Tea and chocolate
make me wonder
if the world
is as safe a place
as it appears to be. 
 
Steak and eggs
prompt me to fear
that the circle
though it turns
is not unbroken. 
 
Wine and cheese
make me think
more highly
of myself
than I ought to think.
 
Whiskey and water
help me trust
that the day’s trouble
is sufficient
for the day.
 
Toast and coffee
persuade me that
the fires of nightmares
are extinguished 
by controlled burns.

                        I

He awoke to the discovery
of holes in the roof above his bed.
Rain was dripping slowly, rhythmically
in great droplets on his head. 
 
All his life, through flush and thin
he had trusted in this shelter
against the storm. It had been
security and comfort. He felt it
 
like a blanket, wrapped around him.
Yet now there was no room for doubt:
the weeping gods had found him
and would force him out
 
of bed. Insistent tear!
He thought of turning on his side
but that would only fill his ear
with heaven's outrageous tide.
 
Get up and find the pitch and patch the hole
that threatens peace;
it might just be good for the soul
to soil the hands in grease…
 
…On the other hand, a moment to reflect
is always wise. 
Less work means less one must correct
or others criticize. 
 
Soon enough the rain will end
and then what use will be the patching tar?
Do the holes not finally portend 
a clear though narrowed focus on the stars?
 
Best to bide the time and see
what clouds the wind will blow away or keep.
Decided it was wise to let it be.
Pulled up the blanket and went back to sleep.
 
 
 
                        II

She woke in wonder.
Thunder, lightning, 
steady rain, a cataclysm in the night,
tore holes in the roof, peeled it back
like opening the doll house of her childhood
to rearrange the helpless little lives.
Gods make such cruel use of wind. 
 
Spent the night in a closet
safe enough, she prayed.
But in the vortex safety is an illusion; 
rather, trust in luck. And she was lucky.
The wind blows where it will, she remembered,
though having heard the sound approach, 
she thought she knew both whence and where.
 
Luck is a relative thing:
it offers and it snatches away
breath in exchange for breathing’s reasons,
heartbeat for habits of the heart.
Not much left of furnishings, assumptions;
find the clock in the neighbor’s yard,
the notebook come to rest just down the block.
 
Nothing left to do
but change her state of mind.
No time to mourn what wind has torn away.
She breathes, and gathers up the remnants
of her thoughts. Other storms
are forming on the far horizon.
She finds a pen, sits down, begins to write.

The world stands out on either side/No wider than the heart is wide. 
—“Renascense” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
 
How wide the world?
“No wider than the heart is wide.”
 
Enough to gather in the storm
that tears not merely roof from hearth 
but soul from soul as well?
 
Enough to bind the wounded orb
bleeding from every pore
weeping in every chirp and howl?
 
Enough to reach between nailed palms
opened  out in love’s embrace,
‘til they circle ‘round the realm of pain.
 
How wide the heart?
As wide as all the world is wide.