Years later the wound
hasn’t healed where the sky
came down, a mile-wide
gouge on the south
side of town. Houses
creep back, crack
their shuttered eyes, tattoo
parlor, nail salon, warehouse
of the lost and found.
No one’s around. Stoplights
keep time turning
in this scarred and carless place.
We’re all heading skyward
in a circle, skyward
in a circle. Everyone’s changed
partners, turned their backs
on the wind that took their shoes,
spun up a chorus of cars
and barbed wire,
rearranged the living
room, slamming the piano
in the sandbox.
It was the worst sound
in the warehouse of the lost
and found when the wind sped up
and the sky came down. |