Late Night

Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,

wind thrashing in the leaves, huge

ears, huge feathers,

like some chased animal, a giant

dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering

windows; from the tin roof

the rush of water.

I lie askew under the net,

tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.

When this clears there will be fireflies

& stars, brighter than anywhere,

which I could contemplate at times

of panic. Lightyears, think of it.

Screw poetry, it’s you I want,

your taste, rain

on you, mouth on your skin.

-- Margaret Atwood, from True Stories