03/23/2019

​all my life, the wind
a robe, a battering
full of reasons and
sweeping reason away.
no hats are safe.
words are carried
off, spit, body heat
explanations.
so often I hunkered
in the tuckamore
as it— a god
in a locomotive derailed
—swept hail to punish the soft
valleys: would you rather
have this? or death in
a soft bed?
all deaths are not equal
as all loves are not;
the rime grows into
the wind, leaning in,
growing the way we’re
afraid to grow.
in my life of catastrophes
the wrack makes more
sense, the straight
branch is most suspect
the raven’s black
ash and mangled antiphony
flag and anthem.
when the fields are
flat-ironed flat
and the stove-piped
lightning burns it’s
reckless argent
I dream of ruins and the
ruined, of what full
gods the destroyed
worship. I would not
give up the wind
to save a life.
I am telling you these
things in the lull.
when the lull ends
my throat must
become a wing.