Climatic
The air is metallic,
a taste of old pennies.
A zombie sky hides in our eyes
as an extra in a walking movie.
Torpid vapors
hang over the mind
bleed an avian infrared blood
as vision.
Stale winds smear
statically charged branches,
there is a fizzle of white noise
in the hedgerows.
Anger is rampant,
the anger is a malignancy,
children feel and know this
as the very truth.
Adults believe in systems
and patterns,
explanations always come
after the land is wounded.
This is not weather,
this is the way
days and nights grow tired
of each other.
Such climatic intimations
do not move on,
they enter battery held cameras
and the electric hives
of humming fears;
are recoded as warm or cold fronts
funnels and zones of uncertainty.
Later, cats are found
in faraway places
alive but forever haunted
by the spaces between each night.
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