The storm

Cartilage-smooth azure extends
above bent heads.
Furrows   s t  r  e  t  c   h       b    e    y     o     

                                 the edge                               n
                                            o
                                            f

                                            e                                             d
                                            a
                                            r
                                            t
                                            h

and chime a tune about
the haggard ploughs,
about the
                           s               l
                                    
                                            e
            
                                                    e

                                                                       t
                                                                                          of sweat



and fragrance of blue-stone,
an elegy for carcasses
of worms and
beetles and
grasshoppers.

“Look what smoke is coming from the east! Dear God, please, spare us this once!”

East pulls the bellows and its vast neck s
                                                                  l
                                                                    i
                                                                      d
                                                                         e
                                                                             s

                                                                                in   d u s t.

A yawning wave of filth
unfolds beneath
the stiffening horizons.

It hesitates.

It ponders.

It tastes the windy sunset with a flick
of sixty tongues and
bathes it in saliva.

It murmurs satiated, its waistline swells
and dust,
dust sifted through its fingers,
cocoons the salty sky.

“Kids, run for the car, leave those unfinished!
Last month’s repeating, God, last month’s repeating…”

The soil pops breaths of ripe cucumbers stitched beneath incisors.
It switches odours, while the monster
rubs its milk teeth
against a gaunt
e
l
e
c
t
r
i
c

p
o
s
t

a bonfire from a thousand matches.
Like                                                tsunamis
children                                          claw
binding                                           the
cheated                                           running
mothers,                                         wheat.

Five hoes
still close
the open throats of furrows.

“Get in the car this second! We have to go before it’s stuck!”

We run,
and as we run a wing of silence  
                                           swooping,
                                                 oblivious,
                                                          explodes.
The shallow tide like bulbous weirs
brims with eagerness to crack.
And as we run the blood of
tones of lacerated water
starts riddling

‘   ‘   ‘ ‘  ‘ ‘    ‘ ‘   ‘ ‘
   ‘ ‘ ‘     ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘’     ‘ ‘   ‘  
‘          ‘  ‘ ‘           ‘ ‘   ‘  
earth’s tapestry of bindweed.

And our hearts don’t let us turn and see
hush,
stubborn, starving and familiar,
gulp down the uncollected harvest.