Reflecting Hurricanes Lee Patterson It’s a city of warmth that’s only cool on my hand passing quickly over the street, and the street is quiet and dark creating itself where headlights reach, or where slowly flashing yellow illuminates the rain and drains the mind of sudden speech: The rhythmic streetlights, each to each a common thread, a golden chain we circle round our hands to pull them closer when the street is brushed over with wind and waves and the lights disperse in blind retreat; the city darkens in sudden squalls. We gather each other in the gathering gloom and wait in warmth in our rooms and halls while the sun steps in, circling the sea. I draw my hand in, close to me to dry the palm and raise the glass, spotted now with moving mirrors that bend the leaves that slowly fall to cushion our steps through circling trees on the leaf-broken sunlight grass pulled gently from the ground. Careless of all we recline, our fingers entwined
88 patterson : reflecting hurricanes