Weathermen scan the skies
for signs of rain, watching
for drifts of heat and cold

that might spin wayward
into twisters, touching down
to flatten silos, trailer

homes, neat rows of brick houses
and their same-color picket fences.
What winds and currents churn

slow then fast in the ocean,
then loft their blue and green
fury above that granite-speckled

mortar? Burnt halo of scorched
hair smell in the air, creosote
spores that bilious clouds

are seeding— Doorjambs, casements
catch; joints swell and ache: we’re
always tensing for what might come.

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