4.2 |
South
Not the hand of God so much as one index finger pointing, touching there and, then, there no longer there. I always believed the digitalized clouds staggered, wove, wave after wave of wind. The cloud circled as it circled. But this, this was a fist. From space, the infrared scored true, a bearing undeflected, the deep crease in the palm, read, ruled.
West
Disaster skins paper. Unbounds it. Its wake is a wake of paper. Waste balled up. Drifting into drifts, sheets shifting in the leftover wind. Left like leaves in the stripped bare branches of trees. Files. Receipts. Photographs. Prescriptions. Directions. Notes. Greeting cards. Menus. Letters. Lists. Lists. Pages sloughed from books and Bibles found miles away, smoothed by a hand, dog-eared, thumbed through, blotted, hung out to dry, amateur restoration in order to turn in, to turn back, to return.
North
On 15th Street, there was a neon sign, a pharmacy’s mortar and pestle, flashing. The light strobing created the illusion of someone’s invisible hand stirring. The storm settled here on this spot. And ground. Ground. Ground. Ground. Ground.
East
My finger on the remote button pressed rewind over and over and rewound the wind. The wound undone. Took the wind out of the wind. Outside, the mockingbird stuttered on the sagging cable.
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