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
