Aftermath

Limbs of oaks unbarked, the tornado’s quick legacy —
the naked exposures of waving shynesses, waiting for the lurk
of evergreen, the bend of covering bough in which to hide.
We assemble what’s left
into house, and mind, and home
but the trampling keeps us awake, the freighted thunder
sucking the edges of dreams into a wind that will not stop.

I can’t remember a time when nothing moved,
when a lackadaisical summer day did not twitch,
when chaised and languid forms soaked only sun
and not the overheat of an overclocked kill, treebound
in a bloody spat.

I only remember pausing to gird against the rains I knew came after,
remember the soaked mattresses and scattered weatherstripping,
the junk cars where the beatings of all of our loves
went on,
the fear howling inside each metal husk.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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