I have yet to learn, why hurricane the trees
bending nests and necks down until they snap
and migrate in all the wrong, wrong spaces
like the boats un-strapping, one by one under the waters
like an unbeliever caught in a killer stare
between lands and the wild fever for escape.
Some nights, memory writhes in the spark,
and even when striding fingers over ears, faint still screams,
as a river does trying to keep a royal tone
over rocks, and cars, and debris,
but I cannot stop un-strapping the waters in replay
while minding the push through these rural parts,
but still, we nest in the aftermath of trees. If we could only fly,
mind to be that head, like a cockerel
witnessing the twist of humans thinned
almost as unruly kites,
strung and fallen under the wrung, wrung parts—
