Watching maps of weather
I remember Vincent, those fingers
of blue and yellow and darkness,
a cumulus of passion, throat-kisses.
What he saw in a woman
a satellite sees in our gray skies,
the pictures coming back to us
as whirling circles over the ocean,
gathering speed, breaking up
an anchorman draws
a line from the tropics
up to my backyard. In Jessup
there are miles of trailer parks
and I wonder which homes
will land on Elkridge, Arbutus,
and which will fly all the way
to New York City, clutching
gargoyles on the Chrysler Building,
and for how long will they hold on,
a woman trapped in the attic,
a man hanging out of a window,
calling to each other, hoping.
A tear falls away from her face.
Maybe he tries to catch it on his tongue,
maybe he can't reach that far.
