five-day weather forecast


the signs of fair weather


in the beginning, the dawn will be fair 

skinned, the sun will break but not be 

broken, this sunday will be naked but not disrobed.


expect the rest 

of the morning to be a garden 

in a forest, a campsite found

flirting with seventy degrees.


rest assured 

aristo will walk with adam, 

have conversations on love,

ask if his name will be lumped into another,

someday, as a bluebird in a blue sky.


adam will listen and daydream of a solid city

somewhere in ceos’s sea. together

like children cooped by winter 

out in the sun, at the coast of a calm forest,

they will nap like babies.


simonides will wake them, 

ask for a small cup of water. together 

the wombs of their thoughts will grow,

take in the sky as their skulls' edges dissolve.







the signs of wind


your monday will likely, probably include

the wind wayfaring through 

a crowd of crops, hugging its way

to die without elegy in a barned corner.

the winds likely dense with birds 

circling the mid-morning. as you enjoy a jog, 


you look into a valley of farms, full 

of brown and green gusted fields.

maybe a windshield busted by the breeze

limps out of a car, the jetstream windchilling the frame.


you may also notice the wolf

of troas, lyco, breathing, resting

a galed gaze upon


your neighbor noah, squeezed between the flooded 

stream, dismantling the beaver dam, maybe 

remembering his grandmother’s mother’s forty days 

and nights of wind: god commanding her 

to build a massive kite of birds, the mammals make

up the backbone beam, a ribboned sapling tail. 

when the wind stopped, the earth was flat,

a smooth dusty ball, dandelions, silt. 


you may, as you and the day continue 

to push, ask for a cloak, ask 

the wind to blow the same way twice,

but you know now it never will, and it chills 

you. how it chills you. now 

it chills you.    







the signs of rain


our tuesday may long for a body, 

have skin-loose clouds, porous bones, 

blood in its birth, and may impend 

heavy rain clouds that shrink 

above their wet falling babies.


a garden gnome sits in lampsacus’s suburbs,

while women would gather the ghosts 

of the drizzling rain, bathe them 

in slivers of oil, teach them some ways 

of truth, show them the night, hold them 

close, say "this is now yours, the future 

that for so long was so far from you is now 

yours to have." we may expect the river 

amidst the neighborhood to flood.


strato might look from stratus to stratum, 

walk the gutter, follow the shower, lean 

into neighbor abraham's lawn to argue clouds 

have more children than the ocean, 

then continue on, trying 

to look past the rain falling in his eyes. 

"everything is rain, though less than half of it rains.”


abraham may turn inside to attend his womb- 

heavy wife, may linger at the torrented window 

covered in rain, reflecting. he may cover himself, 

turn his back to the sound. "the rain is the least of these, my worries.” 


it may downpour, a nimbostratus may grow 

down, pinecones close, haloed crickets slow 

down. the naked sky, clothes down to the ankle, 

no longer will stare lazuli deep into our eyes. 







the signs of storms


is wednesday a good afternoon for a family drive 

downtown? are clouds shaping up to be a war in a womb? 

it looks like this could expand. why don't we love 

earth, i mean leave, during storms? everything speaks.

the traffific earth is humming with clouds

thrown against the mountains.


your minivan family is amidst the metropolitan mountains, 

driving beneath the storm. mine is fine. are they 

listening to the mounting of the sky: 

the cuneiform gashes carred into the road, the lowland 

stoplights, the highland violet and perse, fixed winter 

and summer pastures switched with pavement. 

cities, like storms, flux. the shepherds of dogs make noises.


can they see theophrastus 

makeshifting his sidewalk tent in the storm,

yakking to isaac, the way he thinks god

says “warm storm” and “pitch black,” writing 

thunder and lightning down in the book of signs.


as your family drives by, would they hear 

isaac say “I surrender this city now unto its storm.” 

here notice a bit of a spin in the clouds. “come 

to the border of this country so we can revolt 

and be allied with death.”


i am, despite the storm, in the studio 

saying “we will break those clouds apart 

if they don’t do it first. the drifting satellite 

escaped the womb, is still orbiting us. 

I would rather sail in the dark than run into it. 







the signs of chaos


in the last day, there’s no way to know 

if somebody’s thursday will include terrors 

and great signs from heaven. if things go this way, 

it will be foggy. somebody won’t see anything but himself.


if not, somebody could see aristotle wrestling 

an angel on the streets of new york. this fight, 

i mean, this fog, is too far from us to be certain. as someone 

walks closer, he will be able to tell us more. 


jacob climbs on down his ladder. he thought it was spring. 

is it winter, or a riot gathered. jacob grabs aristotle,

his heel. the riot is volleying words, swarming 

around, a tornado. aristotle’s eye is bruised. 

the skyscrapers are peeling back 

to show more of the sky. the warm 

and the cold mixing. twelve men 

pull jacob out of the fray, like a stag. 


the crowd is torn by jacob’s laughter.

there’s lightning in the alleys of the sky,

like chalk drawn down against a street. dust erupts.

the fog is breathing jacob in and out.


in the glass, the sky is slack and flue, boughing,

breaking. the fog is black. it is his own

hunger hung out to dry before dying.