MICHAEL LAUCHLAN

LATE STORM

Night and rain over the field
and our breathing, then lightning
so close the air explodes.
We say thunder and try
to settle back to sleep.
Think of churchbells, not
as we hear them Sundays
or after some lacy wedding
but as they sound to a small,
spent bird who dozed off,
mid-migration in a belfry.
I’d say lightning punctuates
the night, but night eschews
all syntax. If night speaks
do I hear it? Somewhere
a guy waiting for his bill
hears the first bars of “Sunset
and Mockingbird,” says cool tune
and leaves without pausing to weep.