Tripartite is how a storm convulses us from sleep
One, it annotates the walls of bed:
a slight powder of mist here,
a cologne of cold there.
The yakking feet mutter to
the mouths of head:
stay still, stay still.
Two, it anecdotes a weather report.
A chocolate milk coffee at bedside
A blooming hope for electricity
and blanket as your favorite tv show.
Sleep has the blood of storm.
Storm has none of the impurity of sleep.
There was an arrangement of the three parts
of how a storm convulses us from sleep:
a talking head,
a paralyzed prance,
staying still – and more:
a weather report we lick in bed,
electricity salvaging itself,
a necessary bond between
storm and sleep.
A fruitful melody screams in the head: