Hide Hut Weather

the poem is a hut thinking lives in—Dan Beachy-Quick

My brother led me through a window 
onto the roof to observe 
the passing world. He lifted loose 

shingles to let me touch soft 
pulp which had once 
been wood. I was seven.

Tonight street sounds growl in
and old selves sidle past 
while I dwell in the odd light 

of time’s effacement and the dog 
lifts her head and stares 
then circles scratches sleeps

quite easy in her skin.
A thousand years ago “hide”
became a name for a house

keeping wind at bay. The fridge 
purrs and a clock turns
three three-thirty four. 

I open the exploding news 
and cold rain starts 
falling through the present. 

MICHAEL LAUCHLAN

Michael Lauchlan has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, and Lake Effect. The collection Running Lights is forthcoming in September from Cornerstone Press.