Rattle

the wind at midnight
fuses night with sound
and sleep sitting up
at the window ledge
in the night's apron

the fan belts the wind
to May heat of poems
unrealized ,skies dead
to their potential cloud

come June the hills 
will get up from stupor
down at  map's feet
and then hurl buckets 
from  the sea's vapor

the streets will  rattle 
with wind from the hills
and cry saltless tears
from the distant seas

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