THESE DIRE CIRCUMSTANCES
a giraffe falls off the edge of the earth,
into abyss, somersaulting head first,
his legs running with no effect through the atmosphere.
o! how he curses himself for ever leaving his homeland!
like many animals near the end, he feels more like sand,
a handful of golden sand let into the wind,
released, separating further and furthermore,
abandoning that childish desire to elope.
but even the hopeless hope.
so he postpones himself with an oversized umbrella,
a multicolored phenomenon that he purchased a few hours earlier
at a dime store on the corner of fifth and fisk.
at the end of it all, he imagines his mother would tsk
for although he planned ahead, he hadn’t planned for this.
FROM A ROOM
i have held photos and heard rumors
of the mud hills of montana,
the fire falls of yellowstone,
and the patient rain of seattle.
a decade has passed by now, and i am here,
waiting in a room, writing poems
about far away places.
with time, the room changes from a living room
to a coffee shop to a doctor’s vestibule,
but my hand remains constant on the pen.
my pen digging deeper into pulp,
into paper harvested from the wild,
i wait for nature to claim its own,
for life to lead me to new life.
Tornadoes are worse at night,
when no one gives them credit –
this one a thief inscribing his name on the ground.
We know that dawn will be honest with us,
revealing judgments that heaven had planned,
but until then, the radio speculates into darkness
with words that shake against my ribcage.
For now, no one knows for sure.
A hundred flashes have hidden the stars,
and I feel the sorrow of a window that wants to break.
It seems that thunder has invited itself, pounding on doors
and waking even old men and atheists from their sleep.
Fear is an apologist, but it is silence that scares us the most,
the seconds after the paper is torn, and we are alone.