The storm sky is an afternoon sort of blazing white
and I want to scream over and over again
I don’t know how to say what I’m saying
and for that to be right. But what is right?
A leathery lizard tail
squirming in my hand.
The hurricane smiles playfully, showing the slightest sliver
of white tooth, which the weathermen as one
interpret as doom. I lean out the window. I say,
I have been waiting, and waiting.
The trees whistle songs
The sky is the eye the sun sees us all through.
Which makes the sun an old soul
hovering behind fog, and galaxies
congregations of meditative men.
A field mouse digging for shelter
uncovers a pearl.