William Doreski
The weather inside me shakes hands
with the weather outdoors. The cats
applaud in their snide little way.
This morning you’re sleeping in,
the rise and fall of your breath
miming the misty flow of hills
swimming through angry vapors.
Thunder will rouse you from depths
I can’t begin to appreciate.
Distance folds its accordion folds
and arrives with sweat on its smile.
The weather inside me knots and kinks
as the weather outdoors proclaims
its grave intentions. Rain the color
of uncombed fleece sweeps past
without waking you. I dreamt
of Fischer Grove again, a place
of shaded trails and monstrous trees
larger and crueler than sequoia.
I haven’t told you how the trails
fluster downhill to a depression
where suicides gather to sing
the hymns of my wasted childhood.
Fischer Grove seems to be a park
where camping is allowed but fire
is forbidden. Cold meals only.
No one ever climbs back up
the trails. The only way to leave
is to awaken and shed the dark
beneath those arrogant trees.
I should rouse you to feed the cats
but if you’re dreaming of Fischer Grove
I want you to appreciate
how its deep and secret weather
confronts and contorts my own.
William Doreski
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.