When you let me sleep-in this morning
I dreamt three tornadoes
set down with wood and splinter,
untangled brick from mortar –
whatever color I had imagined
blinded by the Sandman's fury –
a grit and rubble sutra
of a black and white world.
What of it? I was
three faces of Adam
to the wind, threnody
for the lost brother of the Bible –
I had stood between Cain and Able in the field,
suffered the first blows as they fell,
for my failure, my exile greater than Cain's –
I was wiped from human memory.
Thus saith the Lord, thus my name
blown and scraped from the page.
If I chamber three bullets in the cyclone,
not one, and the wind spins them hard,
What game am I playing?
The Sunday Muse