On days it rains, I question the grayed out world
at my window, though mostly I accept it there,
even though I can covet the way the world hushes
in the gloaming glut of a nasty storm. I manage
to escape from the doldrums, mostly–through noise
and busying myself from what’s outside–miasma
and tempest. I build things from words when I can. 
A poem can be a jewelbox or a tomb, a photograph 
or the lash against a cheek. They can also make one
remember. They can also make one forget.