Principles of Chaos

If the hurricaning sky wolfs
this sad peninsula. If depression is the glass
held up to all of this rain. If the rain
doesn’t fall, but shimmies
against the panes. If rain. If brick.
If buckled, the brick speaks.
If brick is the language of our dead
cities. If we are left for dead.
If I kissed the bodies pulled from me,
more than once, in a hurricane.
If he is a man is a monster.
If the brain cells that tell him to turn
a deadbolt, turn the switch instead.
If the fire at the end of the switch
holds no apology. If he grew so sad
that I assigned him a hotline. If sea
-water needs. If the lilies in the front
yard overcome the leaves. If we can’t live
this way. If lost, should anyone live
by force? If I said: not in front of the kids.
If his fist clenched. If my body intuited
the blow. If a hurricane, like a mirror, grieves
its center. If the sky, brickless, holds us
here. Like that kiss held me. Sick with him
as I was. If I don’t remember light,
the mind an emptied drawer. If I must
hold him inside. Each cell, wilting
in a field. If fallow is the opposite of forever.
If, in case this doesn’t pass, the rain
is just rain is just rain is just rain.