Fair Exchange

When you're told you got what you asked for, 
    is it ever the end of it; is it what you 
         asked for in the first place? 
There's always another story where the sky  
    opens its dark throat at night, or 
         the river boils down to its bed
so it can remind you of what it drowned
    there once: every rusted can and chain,
         every ruined refrigerator, bones
of houses that the last hurricane flipped
    on its way out. Sometimes I am afraid
         to sit by the window of what feels
like happiness, even if a bird that sounds 
    like a small, high-pitched typewriter issues
         enticing invitations from the tree.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.