Comes at night
as if from a great distance
muffled, like one half asleep.
Last year we slept under skylights
close to the weather.
It rained last night I say.
My voice sounds strange to me.
I raise the blinds to look out
on a washed world.
The kettle thunks and hisses
on a shiny stove. Trees are wrapped
in fog. The grass wet and patched
with foggy webs. Each one holds
its own brown spider.
By afternoon the grass is dry — just
the tiniest drops still lie
on the webs, making them gleam
like houses abandoned in haste
the lights still ablaze.
Barbara Hill lives in Wequetequock, part of Stonington, Conn., and has lived in Provincetown and Boston. She is the author of A Few Sharp and Glamorous Words.
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