With a Scattered Chance of Forecast
Unstrung, the fence posts list which way
and every like a drunken firing squad.
I’d like to say they’ll never hit us, but.
Or see our swaying as an isolated breeze
and not what’s coming. This week’s gods
are bored even by blood and not above
tough love, a brick’s hard kiss, accelerator.
Someone insists velocity is virtue. Someone
defines amen as keep-it-coming. There is no
wisest way to wait for strangers. I would not
mend of my own accord, miss my wire either.
Not breath as in bait, but our bracing, a bit.
Unstrung, the fence posts lean down toward
the dust as if listening into approach. Not yet,
but the tree, in turn, holds all its little breaths.
Humble ambassador to that high window.
Someone’s children unafraid behind the glass.