First-class maelstrom.
Untitled Chicago Storm Poem #97
I imagine a bird
clinging to the end of a flailing
branch
attempting to ask the sky
why it rages and pouts so. But the sky
has been angry for so long this evening
that it no longer recalls
what stung its spine
what riled its temper
and in the ignorance of motivation
it grows angrier still,
wailing and cracking
in sharp, painful bursts, the boundaries
between disquiet
and
disappointment
lashed away in the storm.
The rooms of my home saturated
with the coppery fear of gun-shy dog.
The sentences in my skull adhering to no known rules…
incoherence as rebellion.
My mind flat, the light unflattering.
Exhaling oxygen, inhaling objection.
I sit in the presence of a solution and begin to assemble the problem.
Creative Control 