That’s us. Let in the August storm. Let
blow open the windows. Let pulse wind
bring about a typhoon of wicked actions.
Call the tempest by its secret name.
Name that envelopes the mountains
where time goes to sleep. We celebrate
another birthday in the dark. You don’t
want to be there. You are there. You
remember a poem born from flame.
I recite it backwards and close my
eyes. Caught in a breeze heavy
with smoke.
