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.
