Reflecting Hurricanes

It's a city of warmth
that's only cool on my hand
passing quickly over the street,
and the street is quiet and dark
creating itself where headlights reach,
Or where slowly-flashing yellow
illuminates the rain
and drains the mind of sudden speech:

the rhythmic streetlights, each to each
a common thread, a golden chain
we circle round our hands to pull them closer
when the street is brushed over with wind and waves
and the lights disperse in blind retreat;
the city darkens in sudden squalls.
We gather each other in the gathering gloom
and wait in warmth in our rooms and halls
while the sun steps in, circling the sea.

I draw my hand in close to me
to dry the palm and raise the glass,
spotted now with moving mirrors
that bend the leaves that slowly fall
to cushion our steps through circling trees
on the leaf-broken sunlight grass
pulled gently from the ground.
Careless of all

we recline, our fingers entwined
in conversation with the new day near us,
beside the days that came to call
our reaching eyes to glinting windows
to find ourselves outside our walls
that can advance, compress the air,
become self-portraits to empty eyes
until winds strike in crumbling blows
to strip lifeless art from gilded frames.

We view the scene, our thoughts the same,
though different storms will bring them near
to memories of peace and chaos:
the balanced, careful loss and gain
that echoes and bends in clear reflection
like the sunlight on waters
that deflects toward our eyes.

It's a city of warmth
whose every window is a mirror.

We forget about semblant reality,
but see ourselves in every blade of grass
that reflects back the sunlight in warm greens.
We hear breeze rustling leaves
and hear the listening-silence thoughts we had:
remembering where we were
when we remembered the same sound of the wind.