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.

Day 2

Is spring the season of leaving?

The kindest time,

before the blind white heat sets in

to burn our eyes to the sidewalks;

these few months when we believe

in resurrection,

when we have at least the irises,

at least the phoebe’s song?

Your eyes glisten with waves,

your fingers stretch to the sun.

Is there still time?

Has there ever been?

Or is there just an instant,

and the hoping for another?

Day 1

Past the checkpoint

down the littered street

heaps of trees pile high

against the curb,

generations written in their trunks.

A child goes house to house

-- the power lines are snakes,

the nails are nails --

delivering pansies

in Dixie cups.