When the storm rolled in, I
washed and starched it,
wore its eye,
                    its rain
wall, velveteen and tight enough to hold my
words in traction. The
wind uprooted chains of petalled
weeds, each link inserted through the tear
where stem meets head. Deep in the pleat, I
wavered on the backside of
white, the
                     dirt-smeared
whether or not, preferring not, the
way it narrows quiet to a
whip. Some flowers show their
whole face to the sun. I
wrap the year in creases, steam-pressed,
wild behind the fold, unveil a
witness wearing
                         floods for eyes, a compass,
wreathed in rip and awe. Below her
waist, the leading edge
wrecks all
                               imagined shores,
wrings color from a
webbed and raw reverse. I
weave her through my gaps, support her
weight with crinoline. She
wipes the landscape clean and
wrong and calm again.