Wind

   He makes the wind His messengers . . .

Storms from the west.
The remains of many
acquiring lives splintered,
scattered about as if
a spoiled child in foul mood
rampaged the block, bent on
destroying all to prove his will.

The news cameras scan the random
heaps: microwaves, photographs,
torn fabric of what might be
curtains or a prom dress
—a memory formerly
stowed away in the spare closet
now revealed for all to see—

mingled with things
more basic to survival:
the contents of a freezer;
bits of wood and drywall
that only minutes ago was shelter.

The reporter, with requisite empathy,
interviews swollen-eyed residents
who can only mention
some divine power at work.
How silly to see willful intent,
ascribing to some irate or fickle god
what is, after all, just wind.

We haven’t spoken in years.

We haven’t spoken in years.

And the last time I saw you
at the yard sale, as you walked
among the collapsible tables

fingering the unwanted odds and ends
of someone else’s life, I couldn’t bring
myself to meet your searching eyes.

Having nothing to add
to what was said before,
I hid myself around the corner until

you finally picked up two crystal wine glasses,
a nickel apiece, and you never guessed
that I was there, watching, remembering.