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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