A poem is a messy thing,
a curious joyride
of unfamiliarity.

Readers bring their carload of desire
to make sense of
its momentum and inertia.

Of course.

We were taught
by the well-intentioned,
who never rode a hurricane
and couldn’t feel its eye;
who preferred the morning edition,
comforted by the comprehensible,
friendly and familiar.

Thrill seeking
attention demands
surrendering the need
for prosaic answers
in service of
the deeper dive
of questions;

resting in the exhilaration
of not knowing.

3 thoughts on “Cyclone

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