Department of Storms: From Inside the Bus, the Bartender Sees a Sig
- — January 1, 2010
To be in charge of lightning, shimmying veils
Of rain, wind that backhands the hemlocks down —
That’s the job she wants.
Think of the fear
She could inspire, sharper than the kind
That makes her cringe when she sees police or soldiers,
Anyone in uniform.
She would make
Her own uniform: gray as basalt, contours
Darker than thunderheads, and gloves
With fingertips a searing white.
Assigning ice
To overpasses, hail the size of grapeshot
To star the windshields of SUVs
Oblivious till now,
she would overthrow
Power lines and cell phone towers,
Unleashing torrents to blow away the sun,
The carapace of its light.
