the wind plays merry-go-round,
the grass bows near your feet,
clearing the streams,
making pathways to somewhere
you feel the bending wind
rushing through your veins
the madness of life
straining through the thumb
that press down the eye of the tornado-
it is dreadful to be there alone.
you may be brushed from the soil
and piled at another place, in another din.
the bones may rattle
with the newness of the blow,
and guard you into a shell ...
the storm brews something in you
something with flavours.
something, you can feel.
you've never seen the skies so drunk,
you gesture them to calm down
but sobering seems a strain.
cut out the past in cardboard shapes
hang it in loose circles near the window
open the panes-
you may be the eye for a while.