day 18: twister

30/30

Twister

 

Not everything is his.

The smell especially

of Kansas

 

Dark dust spiral

 

Green sky inside

of a marble.

 

Listen,

my stories have wings

 

sometimes lose their houses,

stained glass,

Pears on the sidewalk

half-eaten by the wind.

 

When its kind

the billboards start shaking.

Catch your hair enough

to loose it from its bun.

 

One room will remain

standing, the one he

 

did not touch.

Basement child, lay against the dark.

Crack a can of peaches

and wait for the breeze to die.

 

The air is dry and warm.

It has the low voice of your mother.

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