The clouds loom like Asia
Over my brother’s house,
No proof from weather
In the sunken west.
The surf is descending
On my brother’s house,
An ark constructed from willow-boughs
And fitted with loose windows.
The cloud hangs over the expansive
And the storm breaks,
And rain is descending.


About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.