Poem #21

open the door a crack and allow the gusts to pin
against the wall each moment that lets me
push ceilings and step down onto mud
to create shapes, bowls the ceramics student
whirls counterclockwise
each revolution a day or two, time cut
with machete or similar knife
the thing I wield with one hand only
and cut in half each pillar of virtue
paid for by weather fronts blasted by
casing arms punching through
cumulonimbus nightmare
every evening burning yellows and blues
the paintings on our final globe.

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