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Strangeweather
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Dear Disaster
but I trust you understand what it's like to
build a boat from wreckage to get back to the land.
I'm sure you seen a pile of rubble and mistook it for your hearth.
I'm sure you've spent a while when
waking just remembering where you are.
The wildfires made shimmering walls of
flame, a letter latent there burned up on its way.
Now the winds can blow 60 degrees below,
a letter there I know was buried in the snow.
And the fields dried up the summer's empty cup,
raised to the cracked lips of rivers and cricks.
And the oil train on the Dakota Plain exploding into angry flames.
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