From the Fall Issue “Connectivity“
Not a boom. A murmur.
No one’s sure of its direction.
Place an ear to the ground, the ground grumbles
in irritation at its brother the prodigal sky
whose cocksure blue supplies an open invitation
through which the glint of fuselage descends,
a toy: all cheery rumble
until its doubled shadow lashes fire
and smoke plumes bloom in tidy puffs
of spattered ash. Bang-Bang
the sashes of the village windows slam
before the flutter and jitter of women’s hands
as if a wooden sash could keep the end at bay.
Day darkens as ash rises. Glass shatters
– Eliza Griswold