Veering

words are

d

     r

i

                p

            p

  i

n

     g

from the overfull pages
ink-drop rain
torn from the horizon by the screaming wind



my tiny,

                              

                  i          n          b

        a                                           o

r                                                             w

colored kite is dancing in the air
like a singularly
delicate swallow
twisting, turning, flitting about,
trying to escape from that
thin tether to the ground



the muted-sky colors

                  e            n    

             g                       c

        n                                 i

            i                         r

                   l            c       

our fragile atmosphere
bleached out by the blinding sun
and falling in fragments from my iris




and oh, the heavy

       w             l                 

s           e                   l   s

drinking in the scattered
drift-wood bits of me
my too-thin self
spread over this wide, wide world