Last Storm
These twisted trees that live on
the edge of the greatest lake know
so many dances. Tonight
the jig is the frenzied chaos
of flying limbs that have lost
their torsos by force—the wind
moving in too many directions
too quickly to measure. (And this
measure of their music must signify
something also not yet documented.)
The way the dimness drifts
forward to take their ends is possibly
the way we will also meet ours—
in imperceptible increments, masked
by the wind’s machismo, clouds
encroaching to tap our faces with the damp
of expectant mouths darkly parted.
Hello, night.