the signs of fair weather
in the beginning, the dawn will be fair
skinned, the sun will break but not be
broken, this sunday will be naked but not disrobed.
expect the rest
of the morning to be a garden
in a forest, a campsite found
flirting with seventy degrees.
aristo will walk with adam,
have conversations on love,
ask if his name will be lumped into another,
someday, as a bluebird in a blue sky.
adam will listen and daydream of a solid city
somewhere in ceos’s sea. together
like children cooped by winter
out in the sun, at the coast of a calm forest,
they will nap like babies.
simonides will wake them,
ask for a small cup of water. together
the wombs of their thoughts will grow,
take in the sky as their skulls' edges dissolve.
the signs of wind
your monday will likely, probably include
the wind wayfaring through
a crowd of crops, hugging its way
to die without elegy in a barned corner.
the winds likely dense with birds
circling the mid-morning. as you enjoy a jog,
you look into a valley of farms, full
of brown and green gusted fields.
maybe a windshield busted by the breeze
limps out of a car, the jetstream windchilling the frame.
you may also notice the wolf
of troas, lyco, breathing, resting
a galed gaze upon
your neighbor noah, squeezed between the flooded
stream, dismantling the beaver dam, maybe
remembering his grandmother’s mother’s forty days
and nights of wind: god commanding her
to build a massive kite of birds, the mammals make
up the backbone beam, a ribboned sapling tail.
when the wind stopped, the earth was flat,
a smooth dusty ball, dandelions, silt.
you may, as you and the day continue
to push, ask for a cloak, ask
the wind to blow the same way twice,
but you know now it never will, and it chills
you. how it chills you. now
it chills you.
the signs of rain
our tuesday may long for a body,
have skin-loose clouds, porous bones,
blood in its birth, and may impend
heavy rain clouds that shrink
above their wet falling babies.
a garden gnome sits in lampsacus’s suburbs,
while women would gather the ghosts
of the drizzling rain, bathe them
in slivers of oil, teach them some ways
of truth, show them the night, hold them
close, say "this is now yours, the future
that for so long was so far from you is now
yours to have." we may expect the river
amidst the neighborhood to flood.
strato might look from stratus to stratum,
walk the gutter, follow the shower, lean
into neighbor abraham's lawn to argue clouds
have more children than the ocean,
then continue on, trying
to look past the rain falling in his eyes.
"everything is rain, though less than half of it rains.”
abraham may turn inside to attend his womb-
heavy wife, may linger at the torrented window
covered in rain, reflecting. he may cover himself,
turn his back to the sound. "the rain is the least of these, my worries.”
it may downpour, a nimbostratus may grow
down, pinecones close, haloed crickets slow
down. the naked sky, clothes down to the ankle,
no longer will stare lazuli deep into our eyes.
the signs of storms
is wednesday a good afternoon for a family drive
downtown? are clouds shaping up to be a war in a womb?
it looks like this could expand. why don't we love
earth, i mean leave, during storms? everything speaks.
the traffific earth is humming with clouds
thrown against the mountains.
your minivan family is amidst the metropolitan mountains,
driving beneath the storm. mine is fine. are they
listening to the mounting of the sky:
the cuneiform gashes carred into the road, the lowland
stoplights, the highland violet and perse, fixed winter
and summer pastures switched with pavement.
cities, like storms, flux. the shepherds of dogs make noises.
can they see theophrastus
makeshifting his sidewalk tent in the storm,
yakking to isaac, the way he thinks god
says “warm storm” and “pitch black,” writing
thunder and lightning down in the book of signs.
as your family drives by, would they hear
isaac say “I surrender this city now unto its storm.”
here notice a bit of a spin in the clouds. “come
to the border of this country so we can revolt
and be allied with death.”
i am, despite the storm, in the studio
saying “we will break those clouds apart
if they don’t do it first. the drifting satellite
escaped the womb, is still orbiting us.
I would rather sail in the dark than run into it.
the signs of chaos
in the last day, there’s no way to know
if somebody’s thursday will include terrors
and great signs from heaven. if things go this way,
it will be foggy. somebody won’t see anything but himself.
if not, somebody could see aristotle wrestling
an angel on the streets of new york. this fight,
i mean, this fog, is too far from us to be certain. as someone
walks closer, he will be able to tell us more.
jacob climbs on down his ladder. he thought it was spring.
is it winter, or a riot gathered. jacob grabs aristotle,
his heel. the riot is volleying words, swarming
around, a tornado. aristotle’s eye is bruised.
the skyscrapers are peeling back
to show more of the sky. the warm
and the cold mixing. twelve men
pull jacob out of the fray, like a stag.
the crowd is torn by jacob’s laughter.
there’s lightning in the alleys of the sky,
like chalk drawn down against a street. dust erupts.
the fog is breathing jacob in and out.
in the glass, the sky is slack and flue, boughing,
breaking. the fog is black. it is his own
hunger hung out to dry before dying.