and I
sat in one of the chairs chairs facing out. wind on the windows.
holding a book.
It was
a calamitous moment, though I didn't move at all,
because
of the storm.
It was
a storm that I was thinking about, that I had heard about on the
news, a tornado touching down in Brooklyn thousands of miles away.
It is
three hours in the future there, and I am waiting for six thirty
seven to happen here, three hours from now. This part of the country
has never felt more useless to me.
Strangely,
there are few clouds in the sky here.
and as
I look out to the water past the library windows holding Dusklands
and waiting, waiting a long time while my neighbors are losing their
homes and newscasters are talking about fallen trees in a park
I
curse the Pacific to which I have no affiliation
and
feel every vein of mine like string
pulled
to the mouth of the Hudson River Bay
and
its terrible breath.
