Don't panic

I was not sleeping. There was this lightning that was darting in and through and around the whole house and wouldn't stop. It was a tremble-lip child lightning, frightened and pale and thunderless, a baby giant's tantrum sky. And when the sounds and winds and rain came I curled up small on the floor under my blanket, looking at all of our faces and listening. We were all there in the basement, hearing one a.m. and windows and crackling radio. The voice of forecasters of talkshowhosts of Democrats all droning into one voice. It is all uncertain and I hardly remember stumbling into sleep. I dreamed at least two dreams and in one an aged worn man I have known a little while was going away and I said, when will you come back and I hugged him and knew he wasn't and I would not let go. I don't know why I dreamed about him. There was always something about his eyes that I trusted. The storms of spring have been immense. Now, it is fallen calm and I wish I was not stolen in all directions and being so aware of my feet, left standing on nothing but road when the newness fell through. I couldn't answer. See, my breathing wrenched. It is just cut and break, so when you please you might lift my head from the floor. If you would walk across the wide brown land, you could climb up next to me. I'm sitting on this wall looking for horizon stars. Looking for you looking for me.