last saturday

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.

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