The weather is
in handshakes in here.
Bribes pass
from cloud to
cloud: a black
coin or two,
a Nebraskan letter
to meteorology.
Doors open
like brackish brackets.
Dusk is an interstate
coin locker.
I see a slow-burning spleen
bush of bones, calm hands.
Don’t we all see
the lights of a city
from farther than we’d like?