Missing the Weatherman
this morning, she invents a storm, the sort
without a center where the wind’s the worst,
that, rather, stretches as if trying to
get comfortable. Wynona’s never been
much good at letting thoughts resolve themselves.
A storm, she thinks, needs landscape to dismantle,
and landscape needs a figure seeking cover.
Missing the Weatherman
this morning, she invents an isthmus, not
a sea in sight, and places at its edge
a lady unaware of what she’s missing
or simply missing nothing while the clouds
well up like clouds, reminding her of clouds.
