Poem #18 of 30

RITES

The mind often abandons the body;
the land, its dwellers.

Conditions are very favorable
for tornados to occur at any moment.

Winds flatten the top of the clouds
into anvils whose faces beg battery.

Master, the tempest is raging;
the billows are tossing high!

On a Friday, like It wanted to punish the weekend,
the sky is o’ershadowed with blackness
and no shelter or help is nigh.

The mind betrays their bodies; land no more surefooted
than they, yet they refuse its warning—
metallic taste of rain whose weight forces their eyes to squint.
The frontal cortex, last to mature,
cannot make a judgment we will accept.

You need to take shelter immediately
in a safe sturdy structure.

They are too far in to hear, adjust.
Which questions we hope they asked:
Carest thou not that we perish?
How canst thou lie asleep?
would not be blasphemy to their soldiering
endured but not long enough to

lie down in a ditch, ravine, or depression
and cover your head with your hands?

To find the Thing they are looking for?

Each moment so madly is threatening
a grave in the angry deep
and finally over-satiates their thirst
without finishing the pounding and shaping
they rest atop the anvil of clouds in sacrifice
Float face up as if prepared to meet the hammer.

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