Four corners no matter how small still can create an island.
You can look up and around but here beside the opening
is a horrifying step to stake out the campsite and tarp the corners down
because the storm is blowing in from the place where I have been before.
But as for me and my house, we will stay amongst the lightning strikes
and the crowd gathers gloriously beneath the gladiolus hanging
but of course there isn’t room for an island
beneath those trumpets of tropical varietals.
Two clicks to the left to illuminate a space of dust
or mud-cloud showing what was left after the downpour.
The birch bones shone like an X-ray of crooked,
speckled pieces of disaster that night on the island
never knew this was coming
up and around like the comet that sat burning
a hole in the backyard between the trampoline and the house
that was built on the edge of the sea.
You saw it when you descended the stairs.
The house from amongst the lightning strikes that once stood
on the island now makes its way floating
circling like the red light in the sirens you could hear approach in the distance.