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tearing the rag off the bush again
The End of the World Weather PDF E-mail
At the end of the world
the weather in the Midwest is surprisingly breezy.

It’s November. The leaves have started
to fall, then stopped falling.
In a season when branches are usually
emptied of content,
some trees remain green and tall
against a sky Magritte might have painted.

The day has turned early into dark
but people are still sitting outside
on porch swings and picnic tables
watching the world lumber on.

Halloween passed two weeks ago
and on that night, a torrential rain fell.
Only the undecorated teenagers lurched
about the streets, black garbage bags
held above their heads. All
the small fairies and witches
stayed inside handing out candy
to the ordinary,
which is something like how the weather
has been reversed.

Beside my porch in the hackberry tree,
birds have paused in their journey south.

All across the country
the weather has been putting people
in their places or taking them out
and setting them down someplace else.
Many things have been misplaced.
Even smells. One step that doesn’t break
mother’s back, there’s a crisp leaf aroma,
the next step: lavender, hibiscus.
Who knows what it all means?
But there are other things going on
which suggest the climate doesn’t bode well.

Hurricane lamps dot my porch
and from the lawn chair,
I watch as the bicyclists
whip through the gold
that has already fallen.
Little leaf funnels rise up
toward wayward chirping.
I am thinking: Berries, Magritte,
Apple Pie.
And how hard it would be to give it all up
in a flash, or through slow suffocation,
because even in this,
it’s lovely the way we destroy ourselves.

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