It doesn’t die. It just slips
into a different robe,
one cut from spring-blue skies,
but lined with shattered houses.
It walks among the people,
unseen, a cheerful gust twirling
its fingers through their hair,
before stripping in the middle
of the street, stamping its feet,
and shrieking that it’s had enough
and that everyone, everyone
is about to be broken.
This poem appeared previously in The Indianapolis Review. It is included in my upcoming book of poetry, Bright Soil, Dark Sun, which is available now for pre-order purchase through Finishing Line Press.