The tides are harrowing as he talks, spilling from his lips the thunder of the heavens. We do not worry for what he says, or for how his eyes are hooded by the brooding clouds, how his fingers start to claw at the faint threads that bind by thighs, or his tongue that peeks out to wet his cracked lips. No, I say, we do not worry about him.  Because we are afraid of how we might be once the storm pulls us over.  We are the sailors afraid of his bout of rain.