life’s a half-crazed, wildeyed thriveling
her pupils tremble and dilate
in a dream she seems
to walk along the cornstalks
eating ryebread
she thumbs seeds
into the sand
.
death’s a half-sane, disconnection spanning
her non-claws don’t click,
constantly cleaving
s/he saunters along the concrete
with a smile but no plan
eats nothing and drags
life by her hair
moments
(when black coffee
settles in the belly
yet has not asserted effect)
collect –
queasy
wooden windchimes
dongling formidable
and they usher some thunderclouds:
stormvane –
embers
unred, ready
to forecast new lightning
burns, old powervanes, landing spots:
pent up
I thought
Joining forces
With a great tornado
Was the correct power play, but
I’m spun
like rain
power collects
not upon mountain tops
but in the thirsty humble depths
below
⨀ 