The storm prattles on, turning my insides
out. Turning time, each day rages forth,
unremarkable. I make remarks, avert my eyes,
avoid disaster. Wind through my self-made world.
Reeds and salty winds and creaking pine.
The backdrop I want is the one I preserve.
A windiness forever inside of me, aching out.
Rehearse the habits, take up the mantle
you’ve chosen, keep the hours from now
to a better you. A bird slices horizons
in half, black wing brushing against
all the unseeable that’s there. Awake
to witness the moment dawn bears sound,
mournful calling always through the mist.
Nothing common about it. Dark strokes,
the way a group of lines make shape, how being caught
in your sight divides my time, marks my days.