Noumen

The weather ,
from the very first crack of eye,
a furtive look of almost-despair,
out of those three long irregular windows
that allow every morning through and
before I utter a sound
to time-alarm the sleeping child
on the other side of a red curtain;
the weather
promised possible suspension in overcast
overwarm agar of humidity.
Reaching for the touch
 of clouds through the glass
struggling through the aching
ankle and leg;
hobbling forth
and splashing yesterday’s rain
 from the nearly empty tank
on my face
I regard the remains of dreams
swimming in the clouds
of familiar
yet strange
blue eyes
and too black pupils
in that crack in the mirror
that I can see them through.
Yes, almost despair …
not quite though.