herself exactly in the middle
air lifting a hair
times brighter than the sun,
showers of radiation,
inescapably partakes of the vast outside…
the weather is tropical,
98.6 degrees daily,
with occasional shifts into the
Inside weather remains remarkably steady…
ending crosswinds of joy and angst,
billowed ecstasy and fogged in depressions.
seep across the line
from inside to the outside,
whereby they safely evaporate
up into heaven,
leaving Wooden Woman
own center stage.
a dust devil kicked up dirt
in the field behind the house.
Bruisy thunderheads pressed down
and soon enough a door slammed.
In minutes the
soft dust of the garden
howled into a piercing sand blast.
Reeling in windows,
scuttling cushions off the lawn furniture,
Wooden Woman witnessed the
mass exodus eastward.
the trash can lid galloped through the yard and
deftly leaped the fence.
They flinched under another flash and boom.
Engineer dashed out the door, protecting himself
with an elbow over head
hand partially shielding his face,
the sand blast now mixed with spitting with rain.
how cows get electrocuted during lightening storms.
One is much better off with just one leg on the ground.
into the dust down the fallow row of the farm next door.
echoed down the valley. Again.
thunderstorms or trash can lids
(leaves and debris still hitting the house)
realizing the exponentially greater loss now at hand.
A storm of
guilt throbbed inside.
wandered back to the window
as if leaning her forehead into the glass
dispel remorse. A minute, ten…
ENGINEER charges in
holding high an extra large round pizza
(same color as the trash lid)
that he’d chased a quarter mile toward
this the paradox of body and soul.
art of reducing ourselves to a point,
but to a thing with no size at all,
are what they really are
—of immeasurable stature.”
everyone wants to write a book.
They find themselves right in the middle of every story.