When it seems that the world is made of a single

summer as it always has been and that the gray leaves

will hang that same way without moving over the empty

road until the end while the wheat continues to stand

in its sleep with no dreams shining boundless into

the hovering day along the stopped film of the river

when the doors facing south have turned to stone every one

and the parched syllable of cicadas joined with the hum

of fields hangs still in the light and from shuttered

windows voices sift like the settling of dust

all at once the blank sky will be half dark with the black

cloud welling from which a cold wind rolls and the first

thunder splits all around to build upon its own

deafening echoes then suddenly the light will be only

the weight of rain cascading shot through with lightning

at that time if you are away from home and can stumble

to any house they will let you in to a dark room

when it closes behind you at the heart of the roar

you will see as through water an unknown face but you

will hear not a sound it makes and behind it you will see others

looking up from around a table in that silence

knowing nothing about you except why you are there