First published in
Grist: The Journal for Writers
Meteorological Symptoms of a Psychic Phenomenon.
The sphinx’s phalanx is but a society of ruthless words.
The chemist offers paprika for dizzy spells; gold cyanide
for the broken heart; helium for the dear departed.
Dirt holds its monopoly on this world. Above, eleven
clouds face each other but only one of them will survive.
Do they recognize they are the memory of former rains?
Maybe. Still, we see their shadow as triumvirate, their weak-
ness as windless as they aimlessly weed their vaporous
gardens raw. This weather is not spite nor ill spirit nor cain.
