Velvet Static

The storm arrives in violet fur,

a radio of rain and bone.

The windows wear a silver blur.

The house becomes a smaller throne.

Between the thunder's velvet crack

a station finds us, faint, then gone—

a singer from a farther track

who does not know we listen on.

We leave the lamp. We let it play.

The dark is plush. The signal thins.

Whatever night has meant to say

it says in static, and begins.