Three-Sixty-Five  -  365

Another year lapsed in her brain
like a rainstorm, moody and passing
while she waited for her worries to wither.
Spring was like lightning,
snapping her neck on the baseboards
by the end of April,
tired of the windows.
June began the pools of nightmares,
black as boxcars and deadly.
Just between the hedges
the sparrow died, leaving August
to loom in the yard like an ox, immovable.
Falling trees and roadblocks in showers
met the holidays on the road,
watching the wipers whip the rain to the sides.
Christmas Day was a freak, plastered to the walls
with silly putty.
New Year's Eve split open like the Devil's hands,
and she slumbered in the crease.


Sep 2000

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