STORM

The horizon bucks the morning mist as a fierce, spitting
bronco does the hapless cowpoke. Free-range sky tinctured
a sucked-out battleship silver in its wake, the sun given a
death sentence out some might say.
Chill rains of an autumn beat up into a whipped espresso froth and
lash the honeysuckle valley like a thousand tertiary de Sades.
The valley like a cracked wooden bowl, a relic of all things once
fertile, now unforgiven. The valley bowl is filled and at once empties,
a diary of loss of progression and of the lunar tides promising to stay
though they never do.
One gets the impression of cracking; a pebble dropped from a calamitous
height stars the windshield of feeling, of knowing for godsakes, into a
feathery nest of spider-hooks and yawing moats through which our
self-sense skitters, escapes.
A mind moored, stepped even, in four star happiness or Crest-
whitening innocence would be lost here. Their souls would sink like
a millstone into the dross that is leagues deep, a fishing fleet of hagfish
and carrion creepers making finger food of their brainpans·until·Calm.
Regret dense as a feather might lift away then. Hope-lost and dreams
smithereen-smashed offer something a thousand deep-body massages
never could. Serenity, or at the very least, acceptance. An alternative view.
A slow boat sailing to a China that doesn't exist

^