You say wind is only wind 
and carries nothing nervous 

in its teeth. I do not believe it. 
I have seen leaves desist from moving 

although the branches move, 
and I believe a cyclone has secrets 

the weather is ignorant of. I believe 
in the violence of not knowing. 

I’ve seen a river lose its course 
and join itself again, watched it court 

a stream and coax the stream 
into its current, and I have seen rivers, 

not unlike you, that failed to find 
their way back. I believe the rapport 

between water and sand, the advent 
from mirror to face. I believe in rain 

to cover what mourns, in hail that revives 
and sleet that erodes, believe 

whatever falls is a figure of rain, 
and now I believe in torrents that take 

everything down with them. 
The sky calls it quits, or so I believe, 

when air, or earth, or air has had 
enough. I believe in disquiet, 

the pressure it plies, believe a cloud 
to govern the limits of night. I say I, 

but little is left to say it, much less 
mean it—and yet I do. Let there be 

no mistake. I do not believe 
things are reborn in fire. 

I believe they’re consumed by fire, 
and the fire has a life of its own.