photo by Jason Briscoe via Unsplash

And what is wind

but a dialect of longing?–: the high

pressure rushing to fill the low, the sky

trying to slake its heats against the earth’s

asymptotic cool, its somersaulting cools

against the earth’s radiance.  All weather

springs from currents of failed desire.  No wonder

the wind, when it says anything at all,

howls.

                                   *

O fugitive God, my glorious jilt,

my heart has learned a tempest’s grammar

in your pursuit.  Listen: it thunders up

its truest, its most hopeless, prayers

for you.

–Kimberly Johnson, “[              ].” in a metaphorical god