Northeaster

by Suzann Kole

Imagine the sky
crimped and decaying
in its loss of formality;
the terns-wordless kites
fleeing an invisible
rupture of fronts;
this curt display of news:
a dread of recognition
in the bronze folds
of breezeless silence
a repentant anguish
forced through swiveling flags
of rain and chaos.

Today, the hysterical
fingers of crimson
roses are dwarfed and
supplicant under a tyranny
of showers and
sour breath: low tide
jaundiced and irregular
on a granite stollen
of shore, framing
corrugations of sea.
Love, slenders through
bullweed and peony
in a shuttering
of dull blue blades
which part and erect
in redolent grief.

How the weep of leaves-
laurel and azalea,
round a wounded elegy,
over the scum of lace
etching a tidal line.
This prosthetic mood--
felted against the afternoon,
where weeds wreathe,
and plait
in salted frays
of labored breathing.