The tone shifts
in the terrible clouds
tumbling like the ocean is—
it’s all water.
That rainstorm knocked me over
into mud,
spears driving,
water waking up the ghosts.
And everything was open
and shut open and shut open and shut—
screen door in the country
house abandoned,
I am alone with spirits
seething (is it me or the spirits?)
anger in the air.
Shut.
Open and shut.
Racecars in my esophagus
will not stay put.
Drafty, dusty, deeply lonely.
A little bit manic.
Mostly sopping, slightly shuddering,
misty and wondering,
uncorked—whispering
how could I be so thirsty
if it’s all water?