one tiny shift and you were
 wingless, released,

a few motorists saw you, mouths trembling,
stomachs seismic.

in the distance, a beautiful thunderstorm
evolved, ascended,

its cloud a furious fist,
aimed at the sun.


for the last seven days,
my windshield 
has bent mountains.

whole canyons, 
miles of tree line,
snow drifts–pushed into each other,

compressed, distorted, discarded
by a cruel tectonics

of glass, sunlight, drive.

Leave a Reply