you wouldn’t read about it

day slivers between long drapes
through the ornamental pear
its debris of Winter stroking
a streetlight on a rise of dune
high in the French window
you might have thought deliberately
placed, shedding a leftover night

yesterday evening a clotted squall
screeched darting more fish than avian
weaved this and that thought
between toward and reverse
as the sky depleted dusk
and hail banked for chance
lingered, below rusting fretwork

ornate obstinance into the west
basil mint insisting on a presence
hardier than touch or sniffle
over the hill migratory whales call
breaking all conventions of float
don’t ask any more questions
yet, tangled in these sheets as I am