The gusts bent the treetops
The air a gray bog
The street the gutters rushing torrents

But there’s something I fear more
Behind the weather

I should feel relieved or happy or something
When I see that photograph
Of the young descendant

And everybody suffers
We are bound together in suffering

I fear betraying secret my secret
That I suffer more than anyone else

Shameful claim
I’m in good health
Surrounded by lovers and friends

Each of whom injures me
In perfect blind innocence

False claim
Shameful utterance

The storm abates
The air a suffocating pelt
Here in the deep south

A poet from the north saw this place
As a relief or a remedy

Perhaps I feel the same
About the snowy peaks
Where after all one can die

Can one speak of himself without dwindling
Into sickly the sickly confessional

Let’s just talk about the weather