Incommunicado

What is there left to be done,
Before the promised storm comes,
That wouldn’t embarrass us
If the storm proved spurious?

Some have no heart to confess
Whatever secrets are left.
Sitting beside a window,
Clouds in columns, peaks in rows,

I long for an audience
That has no experience
Of the endless mummery
Of prophetic flummery.

I want to tell you something
Unmuffled and inhuman
As wind in broken windows,
Clouds in columns, peaks in rows.