E.

The storm illumined by rain on a metal lid's pattering
conquers my room, & despairing of friendlier chattering

I flip on some radio noise. In the wake of its stirring
day-long advent, I am weak & desirous of flattering.

It's the ions cause these impossible moods, my attitude
being that I should ignore atmospheric mind-battering

when the worst is inside; but why do I dream of weathering
anything?--storm or despair? I remember each shattering.

If the eye is a crystal, the heart is a chunk of matter
possibly coal for some future transformative mattering.

If Love is a fire, then far better my heart be for fastening
fast on another, of mud; even diamond-smoke scattering

leaves nothing to hold. --So we reason, as good as guttering
candles, our love, & our vision a powerless smattering...