Hurricane Sandy, October 29, 2012

Watching bands of grey as they stretch across the sky,
I am holding up my pointer finger and thumb to measure
the way they expand and contract against eerie white.

We splay bodies all over the house, open curtains and internet,
checking the winds, what they mean on their scales, changes
in the trajectory of the storm, what debris may accumulate.

We check weather like this here, usually in Winter time,
as we wonder about the days that follow storms, how far down
will the ground be, when we will see it again through dull ice.

But these winds and rains are foreign, imported from a watery
place, and they will chase themselves down storm drains, seep
into the ground, and we will drink them months from now.

And I feel, coming on wind from somewhere south, a lowness—
a familiar knowledge of fruitless anticipation, after the storm
this landscape will be barren, unchanged for many feet or inches.

All our watching, and there will still be naked street and yard,
and we’ll be able to walk barefoot, and work, drive, make
our coffee—life will go on for us if we’re lucky, changeless,
with a long, low tone, covering us like a heavy, invisible blanket.