The Last Time, Love

A warning, the first sound
like the first light, the only light.

A knock on wood or stone,
a muffled rumble; slow, prepared,

the way a prayer starts
from an old mouth.  I am afraid

to love.  There is always night,
the constant pulse of thunder.

All around the eye, the frenzy
shakes and howls. A seasonal storm,

this is no surprise.  Far in the distance
a horizontal crack of white between

the rain, the clouds,