A minute before 5 a.m.,
the alarm clock slumbering
in its bed of numbers,
I wait for the storied wind
and think of the quahog, snug
in its house
of shell, as the gull
approaches.
I hear the throb
of a hammer
over the beating
of the rain.
My neighbor nailing
canvas to his split roof,
or Noah making
preparations?
In the aftermath,
the hollies with
their green leaves lean
all the way over,
as though they were
listening for something
through a door
in the air.
Electronic edition created by Megan Kipper for New Letters Digital Archive, Culminating Experience, Spring 2021