Michelangelo
clouds float in the evening sky;
where is God's finger?

Things softly rustle
like sheets haunted by ghosts
in the twilight breeze.

Awake in the dark
I can't go back to sleep, but
don't want to get up.

The rain has softened
everthing my eyes see to
a pulpy green haze.

The sun is breaking
through the sweet, dark comfort of
the overcast sky.