When the wind blows hard here angels take cover.

Maybe that's how you came to me, through cracks

in these former barracks walls where I trace knots

and gnarls and write my poems. Tonight, the moon

strikes the ocean until it gleams like a shield.

The sergeants and corporals are gone, but artists

take their place as sentries among this broken rock.

I wasn't built for war, or to agitate peace.

I'm strictly a dreamer of clouds and comets,

but science has let me down, unable to predict orbits.

Tonight winter overtakes the willows and washes away

their gowns, our syllables. I don't doubt

the slingshot force of the Universe. Written into

the sky, we circle —but never really speak —you and I.