Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Day 3


A violence of happenstance
descended overnight
to spur the breezes into rage,
the sky a strobe--
to spin catastrophe.

And in the dawn
the houses of the Avenues,
scalped,
looked out from empty sockets
at the oaks, all kindling,
fields of spears for yards.

Odd comfort,
to think the weather angry,
or the gods;
to think it anything
but indiscriminate.



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