She knows the winds in the circles of all that’s around her.
The funnel is as twisted as the screaming man on the wall
hanging in the serenity of white space,
crosses and orbs flying up like
zephyr elms. Her face
breaching its anvil.
Her little brick house
until her town,
she is totally lost,
until it’s her
and the circle is her
and the flood, the storm.
She breathes its screech over
everything it rushes and destroys.
Can we live in the force of one wind for the whole of a life?
Does the sun gaze down and hunger for the grounded light?