prose poem draft: THE STORM MAY NOT HARM YOU

I've been really wanting to write a prose poem--probably ever since I learned of them (in 2004, I think--if not before.)--but moreso lately. A girl in my poetry class had one written for us to critique, but when we discussed it in class she had already made changes and set it into verse. Well, I'm still not sure of how to go about writing a successful prose poem, but here's one that I tried as it stands in its draft-stages. I'd be interested to hear if you encounter any problems with it, or if it sounds like there should be line breaks or whatever in it... (also, if anyone thinks that there's too much going on, that would be good to know):


THE STORM MAY NOT HARM YOU

The helicopter days, when the rain fills our gutters and pulls down across the window glass, she knocks on the door with a red hood propped over her ears and she enters in socks. We slip around the wood floors in socks and sweatshirts, listening to the murderous anger of the sky. Come here, be still, I tell her. Shivering, like a wet dog who has seen too much to remember that a storm won’t harm him. He crouches under a corner table in the basement. With the sunny curtains open and held by a thin band of cloth, as though they would collapse and weep if given the chance to let loose, we pull ourselves onto the bed and its sheets—feeling cool against our skins. How did I ever sleep without you in my life? she whispers.

They say, when the sky breaks and lights up quick—three seconds, wait: one, two—you should never fly alone or at all. In a helicopter, the only thing that matters is the person you’re with, the moment, what you two can see together. The fear that you’ll never get back down isn’t an issue when you expect that dying isn’t possible, if you can keep yourself in one piece, together with your other. Unfortunately, what you cannot see may often be the unspoken fear.

She reaches her hand across the side of my face and tangles her fingers in my mussed hair. I shake my head and close my eyes; put my warm hand on hers, Cold—you’re cold. I love that she needs a presence beside her to keep warm. When the morning comes between us, waking us till we blink at each other and pull the sheets over our eyes, we see each other again under a yellow glow—as that of a buttercup. The golden reflection upon our chins suggests that, Yes, of course. Someone must love you. You can walk in the forest without getting lost. You can walk in the storm without losing it altogether. But can you go out expecting none of that and still survive in one piece? Blinking beneath the blanket, thankful we lasted through another night, we expect nothing but another.