NUBARRÓN

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
                 shingles,
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.