Forecast Map

Storms are coming.

The air so heavy you could shape it into castles. 
You question the prophecies that haunt you 

for the thousandth time and—

A raindrop drives down your forehead just so 
and down you go, stairs sliding, the last one ramming lightning 
up your spine and into an open vision 
of invisible castles made of air—

Held under the rapids—

     tangled in a downed tree—

                   chariots, tidal waves

    rushing at your heels—

A hundred viruses stalk you.

Poisoned grains of rice hidden in every bowl and

ancient snares with kills in the millions 
set on every corner you’re known 

to chase at night.

But the cruel slivers that keep your eyelids 

pinned open drive you toward each sharp exacting 

turn that keeps your feet on every 
fragile skein of web.

So follow your anger.

      Let contempt make you write words 
             on the ground. May your hands again 

     make ceremony.

When sleepless fever 
chains your body to the racks, stay awake for it 

to purge you of bravado before 
you go hunting.

There is treasure in this field, 
in this muck and wet soot. Clues in the 

telltale words of whispering hail,

stone-fisted disaster.

Search out the faces

        of your many hungers.

             Dive into the dark heart

   of this pain.