Waypoint

I can feel the storm coming,
a system the weather reports warn

will move through the area
between midnight and early morning.

My restlessness is lit by the smell
of chemicals in the air, offset

by the sound of something kindled
as if on the other side of the world.

How do crops hold up their heads
to a battery of rain? I dream of swollen

star-apples, ruddy santol, Spanish
plums dipped in salt. By the fence,

wild berries scribble tiny hearts
along the ground. A thud in the eaves

could be the sound of flight
interrupted, a body reorienting

to the map. I pray to the heavenly ox,
to the clouds that bolt the axles

of the cart to the shaft— if it
should finally want to go, let the end

be swift. Let it come easy in sleep,
in her own bed, at the end of the day.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Night World.

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