This poem is a perfect storm.
The abnormal crawlings and clawings
of a wayward gypsy heart. Clouds are
forming, global word-warming, drops
waiting to spill. Beware saltwater and
too much silence, the violence of
scattered whim and will, wonder and
worry filling tree skins with equal
So far, it’s stayed off the Richter scale,
flown below the radar, known how to
without causing mass panic
in the streets. But it’s building.
Willing itself into
thunder and rage and hurricane
pages tornadoed loose. It’s both
lifeline and noose, sink and swim,
of the tempest.
It’s a huge deluge of both dream
It’s got plenty of warning
but we can’t get out.