Tearing up the atmosphere, laying low in the endpoint place.
Watch if and only if it comes to rest here,
If and only if the size is light enough to heft.
We worry, together and openly, what if the weather breaks?

Outside, albino berries grow from the back of a rooted tree.
Six fine crevices work down its wide sides,
Where we put our fingers to grip the lame being, mutely free,
From its wind dried shakes. Apples litter other grounds,

But here no refuse yet prefaces a turn of tides.
I’d like to split it down the middle.
I’d take my rough hewn static axe,
And break that weakling’s skin, skinny arms, and muck

Up its face with tar, black over the worms.
We talk like we don’t, but it’s what we want,
And in warm strains of storms, talking is effective as
Any other lightening. Get these words out! you quiver,

Under umbrella. (Fun to see how the shaking irritates
The skin against it’s shells, how the it speeds up
Under pressure to be a shallow blur, wiped scarified
By the count of 3) We haven’t even started before

Something, the white berried hulk, sheds its skin in
Shafts, which drift empty upward (we’re upside now, downhung
From our feet from a rope from his branches)
And mingle with the grassy mud above.

Look, the summer storm is black;
Tornado’s coming back.
Deep staring down with synthetic gasp,
A mere cloud uproots our unholy worm.

The trunk is shuddered by applausing air.
Thunder’s all, my eyes are so far gongs,
And to the final, sweet crack of its lasting branch,
My hanger, “In the air,” I sigh, up there.

With a tightening sigh, a bereaved compliance
To the bereft song of order, I swing low in the storm.
With you by, the fruiting albino upends itself.
Only, this time, some windows are broken.

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