By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/19/08

An abrupt series of inaudible percussions
Impregnated the air with an awakening presence,
Like a giant with muffled hands clapping
In the confines of an airtight room.
The atmosphere was heavy with expectation,
Not the expectation of dawn at the end of night,
Although that’s where we found ourselves,
In the squeezed corridors of the wee hours,
But the expectation of a storm. Our first thought,
As we sat upright in bed, still drugged
By the flowery opiates of dream:
“This is the energy of all our annulled resentments.”
The house was filled with spirits, and the body,
Emptied of its relentless machinery of hurt and hurting,
Was charged with amazement. The wonder surrounding us,
Filling us, was drenchingly palpable. Now, we knew
We were going to have to write something,
We were going to have to enrich the silence
With words.

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