November 21, 2016

K. Residence, 2 am

A birdlike crucifix,
a colored paper
hot air balloon
tracing an orbit
slow as a waltz,

curtains and clothes and crayons,
books and flashlights and a paper bag
on the ceiling, a painting of a tree, a house
slim as a milk carton,
an electric fan churning and
churning out
a tiny captive gyre,

that sends the paper mobile dancing
to the tune of a music box
only the very young can hear
(faintly, sometimes, not for very long)
and, pinned in his place
securely as the thumbtacks to their own
flying shadows, not Peter Pan
but Christ, above

the stillness of a borrowed bed
a borrowed night
a question hypothetically
asked, unanswered, too

ridiculous to dignify.


September 9, 2016

Amateur Meteorology

Storm is coming.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi.

What comes after
this many
flashes of lightning
this many
years apart?

Storm is coming.

I can smell it, it smells like
a kettle about to boil
a kettle about to boil over
a kettle about to scald
carelessly bare thighs,
it smells like
or chosen.

Storm is coming.

The sky is still
blue but the particles
are charged
and moving against one another,
and the storm

is coming, I say,

and damn
your cloudless sunny days
your placid limp barometers,
the storm is coming, coming

very slowly
and I am braced and

ready for the flood.